Please Come Home for Christmas
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: Coming of age story that explores Abby's first crush, her first experience with alcohol, and how she copes when Maggie abandons her a week before Christmas. Told from 13 year old Abby's POV. PG13, Rish for language, abuse & sexual content.
1. Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:** Well, I wanted to get this one done by Christmas, but obviously that didn't happen. Better late than never, I guess. Hope you like it.

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CHAPTER 1:

**Blue Christmas**

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"Mom, are we getting a tree today?"

Eric devoured his last bite of toast and looked at me cross-eyed when I tried to signal for him to hush. He had already asked that question a million times, I could tell it was getting on Maggie's nerves. But when you're ten and Christmas is a week away, I guess you kinda start to wonder where the Christmas tree is. And the twinkle lights and the wreaths and the presents. Our apartment didn't look any different today than it did the rest of the year, but Eric and I could see the glow of our neighbor's blinking decorations flashing greens and reds and blues against the thin curtains that veiled our front room windows. Maggie could see it too and it drove her crazy. Lately her moods seemed to change just as quickly as it took the lights to blink on and off. That's why I wasn't worried much about a Christmas tree.

"I don't know, Eric," Maggie responded, her back turned to us.

I noticed she hadn't eaten any of the dry cereal she tossed into the trash before rinsing out her bowl. Not feeling very hungry either, I let my spoonful of milk and Cheerios dribble back into my bowl. The ring shaped pieces looked like little life preserves floating around in a sea of white. I guess the people they'd been thrown out to help had already drowned. When I pushed the bowl away it made a loud scraping noise against the table and Maggie jumped.

"Abigail, eat your breakfast."

I looked up at her. "It's soggy. I don't like it when it's soggy."

"You'll be hungry at school."

"I'll eat a big lunch."

She stared at me, exasperated, and I regretted evenopening my mouth. Mostly I just kept things to myself when she was having her "blue days."

My brother ignored the conversation and dug into my leftover cereal. When things were going good, Maggie and I would laugh and make jokes about how much he adored food. If he started to whine about being teased, Maggie made it all better just by ruffling his hair and saying a growing boy had to eat. And grown he had. Tall and gangly like our father, he only stood a few inches shorter than me. Everyone said I'd be small like Maggie.

"Phillip has a tree," Eric grumbled into his spoon. "His dad and him put it up the day after Thanksgiving."

Maggie groaned softly, shutting her eyes the way mothers always do when their kids bug them. I noticed our mom did it a lot. "Okay, Eric, we will get a tree today when you get home from school. Just please, stop asking me."

I tried to smile at him when he whispered an enthusiastic "Yes!" and gleefully swung his legs underneath the table, knocking against my shins. I envied his blindness to the warning signs Maggie was putting off. They had never shown up this close to Christmas. She usually had her highs around the holidays, like the year she woke me and Eric up at three in the morning to see the heavy snow fall that had turned the entire world white and magical over night. She said she had wished it that way for us, and when Eric, no more than seven at the time but old enough to know it was still too dark to be playing in the snow, asked if we could go sledding later that day, Maggie told us there was no sense in waiting.

Without hesitation we had bundled on a layer of pajamas, sweaters, snowsuits and bulky coats and followed her into the winter wonderland we were sure she had conjured up just for us. A giddy feeling - the kind you get when you know you're doing something bizarre and don't really care - spread through me that dark morning and, despite all my warm clothing, my skinny body shivered and tingled with uncontrollable excitement. We flew down hills at breakneck speed and when we got tired of that we danced in the snow and sang carols at the top of our lungs, not even stopping when someone turned a light on in their house and pulled the curtains back to glare at us. The three of us collapsed on the snow after a while and lay there sucking in the air that was so cold it made my lungs hurt. But I didn't complain. I just wanted to stay there forever with our breath - mine, Eric's and Maggie's - blowing little puff clouds that mixed together and disappeared before I could tell whose puff cloud belonged to who. I wanted to freeze Maggie up like the icicles on the trees and keep her as she was right at that moment, happy and holding me and Eric in her arms. But no matter how hard I prayed for it not to, the sun, with its power to transform icicles into mere puddles, still came out that morning.

"It's time for you kids to go to school," Maggie announced with relief. She handed Eric the lunch I had packed for him and kissed his ear. "Don't dawdle. I don't want anymore calls from your teacher saying you're showing up late for class."

"'k, Mom."

"Abby, be good." She always said that to me. Be good. I wanted to tell her that I was good; I didn't get into trouble in school, I didn't make the teachers close their eyes because they were annoyed. I just sat at my desk and minded my own business, plain and simple. Good.

"I will," I replied, walking my bowl/Eric's bowl to the sink and dumping the milk.

I helped my brother get his coat zipped and made sure he had his snow hat and gloves on, then I put on my own purple coat with the black gloves and hat that matched. Usually my coats and things were a neutral color that could be handed down to Eric when I outgrew them, but with him shooting up in leaps and bounds and me needing something that finally fit in with what the rest of the girls my age were wearing, Maggie had relented and bought me the purple coat. I loved it. And best of all, Judy Evans, the snottiest, most stuck-up girl in my class, had to _beg_ her mother to go buy her one just like it.

I gave Maggie a quick kiss goodbye and left for school with my little brother. He was only in elementary school whereas I had already moved on to junior high, so we took different routes. Still, I liked to walk with him as far as I could each morning. We talked a lot and laughed during those times. He was especially talkative today, overjoyed that it was the last day of school until after Christmas.

"Do you think Dad will bring us presents this year?" Eric asked, making zigzag patterns with his footprints that reminded me of those "Family Circus" comic strips where the little boy runs around the neighborhood and tiny black footprints mark his winding path.

"I dunno. Maybe." I hadn't seen our father in months and I doubted it would be any different by Christmas. He had a new wife and family now. I knew I would be fine without him, but I wished he would at least pay a visit to Eric once in a while.

"Yeah, he forgot my birthday, but there's no way he could forget Christmas!" Hop, hop, hop, more footprints in the snow. "Do you think Mom bought all our presents yet?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Is that ALL you can say?" Eric ran a circle around me, trapping me inside his snow maze for a second as he stopped to look at me and swiped a glove under his runny nose.

"I dunno. Maybe." This time I grinned after I said it, and Eric rolled his eyes. He never thought my jokes were funny, especially since he considered himself the only true comedian in our family. I couldn't argue with him there. His sense of humor often rescued me and Maggie from our tension.

He dodged me when I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and tried to dry his leaky faucet of a nose. "Go to school with crusty nostrils and snail trails then," I warned, and it did the trick. He trudged towards me and fidgeted self-consciously while I wiped at his face. I made sure it was over before any of his friends could wander past to see Eric Wyczenski getting his nose cleaned by his big sister.

The subject changed to toys he wanted as we resumed walking, and when we reached the corner I had to turn on, Eric had already named enough toys for ten kids to enjoy on Christmas morning.

"Come straight home from school," I called, walking backwards so I could see my brother going in the opposite direction. He did the same so he could see me.

"Duh, I will. We're getting a tree! You better come straight home too." He imitated Maggie, making his voice high, "Don't dawdle!"

I laughed and turned to walk the normal way, keeping my head down against the wind and kicking up a spray of snow with my boots. My friend Howie sometimes met me at this spot so we could walk together, but he was nowhere to be seen today. I figured it was for the best, because I wasn't in a very cheerful disposition. I was thinking about a tree covered in blinking multicolored bulbs, the flashing shades matching each of Maggie's shifting moods. Yellow when she was happy, green for her jealousy and suspicion, red for her anger, and the haunting melancholy blue that swallowed her up in sadness.


	2. O Tannenbaum

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CHAPTER 2: 

**O Tannenbaum**

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"Let me get that for you." I hurriedly climbed the stairs that led into my building and opened the door for Scott, whose arms were occupied with a box full of records and cassette tapes. He had moved in two apartment doors down from mine a few months ago and I adored him. He looked every bit the musician he was, from his long uncombed hair to his faded jeans that were frayed at the cuffs and sported holes in some interesting places. His eyes were an intense blue-green and he had the thickest, most beautiful eyelashes I had ever seen on a man. I liked his fingers best though. They were long and graceful, perfect for a pianist. Sometimes I could hear him playing his keyboard (just something to hold him over till he had a place big enough for a real piano, he told me) late into the evening, but the guitar was my favorite. He liked to sit barefoot in the hallway and strum at the instrument until he had created a new song. Some days when I returned home from school to find him that way he would greet me with a wink and play the chords of an old country song, making his voice twangy and deep as he sang, "Hello, Darlin'. Nice to see ya. It's been a long time... you're just as lovely as you used to be..." 

Most guys of twenty-two, or any age for that matter, ignored skinny, flat- chested, mousy haired girls like me, so I delighted in the attention I got from Scott. He didn't treat me like a kid, which was what attracted me to him the most. Other people seemed amused or freaked out by my serious grown-up side, but Scott just took it in stride.

"Thanks, babe," Scott said with a grunt, brushing past me and dropping the box onto the floor where it clattered loudly and stirred up a cloud of dust. Catching his breath, he stooped over with his hands on the torn knees of his jeans.

"Did you rob a music store?" I asked, eyeing the box and its contents.

He straightened and grinned at me, showing off his perfect teeth. I wondered if he'd worn braces at my age.

"Sorta feel like I did," he answered excitedly. "The one on Vine Street is going out of business and I got all this crap for practically nothing. Aretha Franklin, Gershwin, The Beatles, Patsy Cline, you name it I got it. Have a look."

I knelt to brush through the eclectic mix of music, recognizing a handful of the bands and singers but mostly puzzling over who the rest were. "You like a lot of different stuff, huh?"

"Hell yeah. I don't limit myself to any one genre," he explained. "People can get so stuck on a certain type of music that they never branch out and listen to all the other great stuff that's out there. I like rock 'n' roll as much as the next person, but I'm not gonna listen to _just_ that, you know?"

I nodded and dropped the Sex Pistols cassette I had been studying. Scott saw and chuckled a bit.

"You like them?"

"Kinda," I replied, hating how shy my voice sounded.

"Take it." He reached for the tape and held it out to me. "My Christmas gift to you."

"Really? You sure you don't want it?"

"Nah, I think I've already got that one anyway."

My cheeks were already rosy from the cold walk home, but I could feel them getting redder when I took the tape and my fingers grazed Scott's. He winked at me. "Merry Christmas, Nightingale."

He'd taken to calling me that after Maggie stuck her head out our apartment door one day and yelled "Abigail!" into the hall where I was singing along as he played his guitar. Later when I asked where he'd come up with it, he said the moment he heard my full name it reminded him of "nightingale," which, like me, was a pretty little songbird with brown feathers, or hair, in my case. We didn't use nicknames much in my family, so the one Scott had for me seemed all the more special and private. Maggie could flirt with him as much as she wanted; he still hadn't given her a nickname.

"Thanks, Scott. Merry Christmas." I tucked the Sex Pistols cassette into my pocket and raced towards apartment 17, my heart pounding like the thump of my feet on the floorboards. Finally I was starting to feel some of the excitement of being on break with Christmas right around the corner - and Scott living two doors down.

Eric was nowhere to be found on the walk home from school, so I wasn't surprised to see him sprawled across the couch when I entered our apartment. I pulled off my black cap and gloves, raking my fingers through my hair to tame the static electricity that made it stand on end. "Did you run all the way here or what?" I questioned him, letting my backpack slide to the floor. He just looked at me sulkily and nodded.

"What's wrong?"

He pointed towards the hall that led to the bedrooms. "Mom's got a guy back there. I knocked and asked when she's coming out so we can go get a tree, but she said, 'Not today' and told me to go watch TV. Abby, we were supposed to get one TODAY," he whined, looking at me expectantly and working up some tears to emphasize his disappointment.

I often had to take charge and be the responsible one when Maggie wasn't herself (whoever that was) and I think my brother had come to see me as the head of the household, which meant talking sense into Maggie when she pulled a stunt like this. Most of time I didn't mind, but once in a while I would have liked to simply be a thirteen-year-old kid who could depend on her mom to keep promises about buying Christmas trees.

I could hear giggling on the other side of Maggie's door when I reached it and prepared to knock. She brought boyfriends home frequently and I guess this was her newest, because I didn't recognize his voice. The last one had been kinda funny, though not very bright. Half the time he was too stoned to remember his own name. Eric and I made a game of throwing popcorn at his open mouth while he lay zonked out on the couch. The first to make it in got to watch whatever they wanted on television.

My first knock got no response, so I made the second louder.

"I told you to go watch TV, Eric," Maggie shouted, tossing something that banged loudly against the door. The new guy laughed.

"It's Abby."

"Oh... what do you want?"

"Could I talk to you... alone?" I stressed the last word. I didn't want some stranger whose face I couldn't even see listening in on my conversation.

"I'm busy. Can this wait?"

"No. It's already been put off long enough. You told Eric we would get a tree today and I think you should stick to your word. You wasted too much time already, the best ones are probably already gone."

"Well, then it won't make a difference if we wait another day, will it?"

That infuriated me, but I kept a level tone. "Yes, it will. It's important to Eric so it makes a big difference."

"Oh, Abby! He's ten, he'll live. I said not today, and that's final!"

I didn't have to see her face to know the exact expression on it. I was proud of how much prettier my mom was than the rest of my friends' moms, but how quickly those soft and innocent schoolgirl features were able to turn sharp and ferocious.

"Get lost, kid," the new guy added, impatient to get back to the liaison I had interrupted.

I turned to see Eric standing at the end of the hallway, tears in his eyes, and this time he wasn't forcing them. It made me want to kick Maggie's door down and scream at the two adults, force them to see how much they were hurting my little brother. Instead, I zipped up my coat and yanked my cap back on my head, storming towards Eric.

"Put your coat on," I said, determined. He watched in shock as I dug into Maggie's purse and pulled out her wallet.

"Are we running away?" he demanded, hurrying around the room to gather the articles of winter clothing he had scattered every which way on his return home.

"No, we're gonna get a tree." I pocketed a few bills from Maggie's wallet, and tossed it back in her bag.

Eric stopped winding his scarf around his neck and looked at me funny. "How're we gonna do that? We can't carry it home."

In my angry haste I hadn't really considered that. Crap! I chewed on my bottom lip and thought it over briefly, throwing out the first idea that came to mind. "We'll take your sled. If we get one that's not too big we can pull it on that."

Satisfied with my plan, he bounded into step with my quick strides, grabbing my hand to make sure he didn't get left behind as we exited the apartment and I slammed the door behind us. Scott was right outside his own door, so I tried to rush us by unnoticed but it didn't work. The number 9 he'd been straightening turned upside down and swung like a tiny noose.

"Hey, where's the fire?"

Eric ran into me when I came to an abrupt stop. I couldn't think of anything to say, but my brother was never at a loss for words.

"Abby stole money from Mom's purse so we can buy a tree and we're making a break for it before she finds out," he said, embellishing a little at the end. He just looked at me when I jabbed him with my elbow.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and avoided meeting Scott's gaze, half-expecting him to give some kind of lecture on the sinfulness of stealing.

"Whoa, you're on the lam," he said, squatting to Eric's level but using the position to look me in the eye. "Want me to drive the getaway truck? It's been at least a week since I aided and abetted any fugitives, I'm kinda starting to miss it."

"Oh, that's ok. You look like you're..." I glanced at his door and the dangling number nine, "busy. We can manage."

"Abby, you dope!" my brother hissed, tugging at my hand. "He's got a truck, that's way better than a dumb ol' sled."

Two pairs of eyes - Eric's big brown ones and Scott's sea colored ones that I imagined saw deep into everyone's soul - stared expectantly at me. Sure, I wanted to go for a ride in _his_ truck, and it was way more inviting than dragging a tree home through the snow, but I didn't want to involve Scott in my family's problems. The less he knew about it the better. And I was sure he already knew way more than I wanted him to, thanks to gossip and Maggie's tendency to yell out her frustration in a building with paper-thin walls.

"It's awful cold outside..." Scott commented.

I licked my lips, chapped from the winter wind, and thought about walking all the way into town with Eric, his teeth chattering like those little wind-up toy kind. Chapped lips and chattering teeth or sitting next to my Scott in a warm vehicle where Maggie couldn't appear to steal his attention away? I decided I could swallow my pride this once.

"Well, if you're sure it's all right."

"Positive. Lemme get my keys," he said, practically falling over the box of records and cassettes he had placed just inside his apartment. Eric and I stifled our laughter as he tried to play it cool and hopped around the obstacle. I could hear his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum in the kitchen and a moment later he returned, twirling his keys on those elegant musical fingers. I wanted to reach out and grab his hand like Eric had done to me, but I wasn't brave enough.

His truck smelled of stale cigarette smoke, thick and suffocating. I let it pull me in and settle on my clothes, feeling like I was climbing into another world, a different atmosphere. Scott's world, where you didn't have to wear a seatbelt when you sat upfront and the upholstery made funny noises when you moved. Eric sat on the hump in the middle since he was smallest and as we rode to town, the old truck rumbling and bouncing me and my brother so hard we almost lifted off of our seats, I reveled in the idea of the three of us being a family. My daydreams were even set to music - the gentle melodious sounds of Scott singing along with the radio.


	3. Sleep in Heavenly Peace

Chapter 3  
  
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE  
  
*  
  
"Eriiic..." I woke from a light sleep and twisted uncomfortably when I felt my brother's foot pushing against my back. Sometimes when he'd had a bad dream or when Maggie brought home another boyfriend, Eric would sneak into my room and when I opened my eyes in the morning there he would be, his hand draped across my face or his legs twisted up in mine. I was glad he chose me over Maggie. I'd gotten too old to creep into anyone's bed when I felt scared or lonely.  
  
The sun hadn't come up yet, so I checked the glow-in-the-dark Scooby-Doo clock on my nightstand. Six AM. Not my favorite time of day to get out of bed, but I usually couldn't go back to sleep when the house was this quiet. I strained my ears against the silence, hoping to hear Maggie, the early bird, in the kitchen making breakfast or at least giggling across the hall like she'd done most of yesterday.  
  
Something felt off, the way it does when you're going on a long trip somewhere and you know there is that one thing you've forgotten to pack but you don't remember what it is until miles down the road. I sat up and listened again. The wind pressed on my bedroom window and it rattled in protest. I eased my feet onto the icy floorboards, wishing I had worn socks to bed.  
  
We had only lived in this apartment for a little over six months, but I was so used to moving that it took me no time at all to get the feel of a new place. By now I knew this one well enough to maneuver through it with my eyes closed and still avoid the squeaky spots on the floor, so mine was a noiseless passage from my bedroom to Maggie's. I put my ear to her door and held my breath, still not hearing anything. She was probably sleeping peacefully I told myself, but I couldn't resist turning the knob to have a look.  
  
Her room was empty. Some of her clothes were strewn across the floor and bed like mine often were when I couldn't decide what to wear to school. I picked up her white cashmere sweater, the one I liked to touch and rub my cheek on when I was younger, and hugged it tight, dreading to continue my search of the house. I longed to curl up in her sheets and flower-print bedspread and pretend I didn't know what I would find on the table or stuck to the fridge, or wherever she had decided to leave it this time. But if my suspicions were correct and there was a note waiting for me, I wanted to find it before my brother woke up and spotted it.  
  
I backed out of Maggie's room and closed the door, letting my feet carry me where my heart wasn't willing to go. It took me awhile to find the note, and I almost had to laugh at where she'd chosen to leave it. She knew how to fold those origami stars, and the white paper she'd used stood out on the tree branch it was propped up against. How wonderfully and ironically creative, I thought. A new decoration for the tree she hadn't even helped hang our collection of Christmas ornaments on. It had been me and Scott and Eric who put on all the lights and things, while Maggie and her boyfriend, whose name turned out to be, to my amusement, Beau, drifted back and forth from the bedroom and gazed through us half the time like we weren't really there. Maggie hadn't asked where we got the money for a tree and I didn't bother bringing it to her attention.  
  
My name was written on the front of the star in her flowery cursive, the kind you would expect an artist to have, and I stared at it so long it began to look like nonsense. Swirls and loops and flourishes of the pen that didn't really mean anything except that I was supposed to read what was inside because I was the oldest and the one she relied on the most. I wondered if tearing the paper to shreds would do any good, maybe like reversing a spell by destroying whatever cursed item had cast it. But Maggie's spell was too strong and my hand plucked the star from the branch, unfolding the neatly creased edges as I sunk into her favorite armchair and switched on a lamp so I could see better.  
  
Abby,  
  
Beau and I needed a little time to ourselves. Be my big girl and take care of Eric while I'm gone. Don't know when I'll be back, but don't worry. You and your brother did a wonderful job with the decorations! There's plenty of food in the fridge. You're my angel.  
  
Love, Mommy  
  
I reread the lines, hoping I'd missed a clue as to how long she would be gone, but I knew there wasn't one. There never was. Last time it hadn't even been a full day, but the time before that it had been three whole days of Eric and I eating peanut butter and jelly at each meal and letting the phone ring itself out, because I never knew what to say when her bosses called to ask if she was coming to work. What bothered me the most in her note, though, was the ending. I hadn't called her Mommy for years. Mom, Mother, Maggie, whatever. Just not Mommy.  
  
I attempted to fold her letter into a star again, but it didn't work for me, so I folded it the regular way and tucked it into the waistband of my pajama bottoms. The cashmere sweater was balled up in my lap and I unrolled it, slipping it over my head and stretching my arms inside the sleeves. They covered my hands completely and I left it that way. I must have been sitting there for a while, my legs curled underneath me and my eyes glazed over as I fretted about Maggie - whether she'd taken warm enough clothes and what if Beau was a psycho serial killer or something? - because when I snapped back to reality the sun was shining and Eric was standing in front of me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked through a yawn. His dark brown curls were flattened against one side of his head, the other half sticking straight up. I loved the way he looked in the morning before his energy kicked in and he was still disoriented enough from sleep that I could cuddle with him and treat him like my baby brother without making him mad.  
  
"Just sittin' and thinkin'."  
  
"Thinking about what?"  
  
"That someone needs to plug the Christmas lights in," I replied, giving him a sly look. I always tried to put off telling him that Maggie had split in the middle of the night as long as I could. He had a habit of begging to stay up way past his bedtime and I knew it was because he wanted to make sure she didn't leave us. I guess that was why I sometimes laid awake for countless hours before finally dozing off, too. It didn't matter if I was at a slumber party or lazing around with relatives for the traditional Thanksgiving nap, I was inevitably the last to fall asleep.  
  
Instantly dropping to his hands and knees, Eric found the plug and stuck it in the socket. I patted the chair cushion and he willingly scooted in beside me, the weight of his head pressing against my shoulder as he leaned back and we looked at the tree, neither of us wanting to disturb the silence that made the moment seem sacred. He caved before I did.  
  
"Hey, Abby?"  
  
"Yeah?  
  
"Do you like Scott better than you like me?" His face was serious when I gazed down at him in surprise.  
  
"What? Of course not. Why would you even think that?"  
  
He shrugged but gave his reason. "He makes you smile."  
  
"Well, so do you, goofy." I squeezed him lightly on the side where I knew he was ticklish. He squirmed and laughed, pushing my hand away.  
  
"Yeah, but not like that. You smile different when Scott's around."  
  
"Different how?" I questioned, intrigued. Did my infatuation with Scott really show through that much?  
  
"Just... different. Like you want him to kiss you or something."  
  
I blushed and hid my mouth behind the floppy sleeve of Maggie's sweater. Eric never teased me about boys and I paid him the same respect when it came to girls he liked, but I did not want my ten-year-old brother to be this aware of my feelings for Scott. I didn't want him to know I fantasized more and more about what it would be like to press my lips to Scott's or wake up beside him in the morning, our heads on the same pillow. It stirred something inside of me that I didn't quite know how to deal with, and I certainly didn't want anyone else finding out about it. Least of all Eric.  
  
"Like that!" he said, pointing a finger at my face and sounding annoyed. "Are you in love with him??"  
  
"No," I lied.  
  
"You're not gonna do S-E-X with him, are you?"  
  
"Eric!" I shrieked, springing out of Maggie's armchair and planting my hands on my hips. We had a television, friends who talked about sex, and a mother who didn't exactly try to hide her romances, so it didn't shock me that he knew about such things. It just wasn't something we talked about and I had no intentions of starting now. "That's disgusting! Don't ask me stuff like that."  
  
"Geez, Ok! Sooorry," he drawled sarcastically. "I just wondered. I think you'd get in trouble if you did anyway, 'cause he's old, so don't."  
  
"Stop talking." I covered his mouth with my hand that was covered by Maggie's sleeve and urged him to stand, guiding him to the table. He followed obediently and sat down in his usual spot. "I'll make breakfast. What do you want?"  
  
"Eggs Benedict and fresh squeezed orange juice," he said, smiling angelically.  
  
"Pancakes it is." I stuck my tongue out at him and ducked into the kitchen, making a racket with the pots and pans in my search for the one Maggie had taught me to cook pancakes on. When she was depressed I either had to fix the food or we didn't eat, so I had learned early on to ask a lot of questions when she was in the kitchen. Nothing I made ever tasted as good as Maggie's cooking, something Eric wasn't too shy to state, but at least it was edible.  
  
I was pouring the batter for the first pancake when Eric wandered in to watch. He eyed the white sweater and the bowl in my hands. "Why isn't Mom making breakfast?"  
  
"How many pancakes do you want?" I asked, hoping to dodge the question until I'd planned a better way to tell him Maggie was gone.  
  
"Why isn't Mom making breakfast?" he demanded.  
  
I didn't answer.  
  
"That's her sweater."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He heaved a sigh too big for a ten-year-old. "She left us again, huh?"  
  
Reluctantly I nodded, watching the yellowish mixture pool and fizzle in the pan, succumbing to the heat. I pulled the note from my waistband and handed it to him. He took a long time reading it and when I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, he looked like he was staring right through the paper.  
  
"What if she's not home in time?"  
  
I flipped the pancakes and made my voice optimistic. "She will be. It's six days away, she's never been gone that long. And she loves Christmas."  
  
"She didn't love it enough to get a tree," he mumbled. "Bet we don't get any presents, either."  
  
"Yes, we will. We've always had presents before, haven't we? Even Maggie isn't crazy enough to forget that." I wanted him to buck up and yell at me for calling our mother not only by her first name but also crazy. It wasn't something I did a lot, but if it ever slipped out in front of him he instantly jumped to her defense. I did the same when the situation was reversed.  
  
His jaw was clenched as he tore Maggie's note to pieces. It fluttered to the floor like a bunch of jagged snowflakes. "I hate her," he whispered.  
  
We ate our pancakes in silence that morning and when Eric had disappeared into his room where he wouldn't have to look at our decorations, I rested my head on the table and wished there was no such thing as Christmas. 


	4. Gone Away is the Bluebird

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, y'all. Glad you like the story so far. I'm really digging writing a young Abby. :) I have no idea how long this fic will be, but I've got plenty more ideas so stick with me, 'k? Thanks again!  
  
Chapter 4  
  
GONE AWAY IS THE BLUEBIRD  
  
*  
  
The first two days of Maggie's absence passed with little incident, unless you count the fight Eric and I had about who was watching what on television. He wanted wrestling; I refused and changed it to MTV. The problem was settled when a struggle for the remote accidentally clicked it to a station showing The Wizard of Oz, a movie we'd both seen a billion times but could never get enough of. Eric liked the Flying Monkeys and the talking trees; I only cared about Dorothy, the lost girl trying to find her way home. I imagined that's what it was like for Maggie. One minute she was here and fine, the next she was swept up in a tornado of emotions that took her to some far off place where we couldn't reach her. Over the rainbow. It was easier to cope by picturing her locked up in a witch's castle, watching us through a crystal ball and wishing she could be with us, or following a yellow brick road that would lead her home, than it was to acknowledge that she'd left on purpose with a man that looked at me and my brother like we were pesky bugs he wanted to squash. Maybe he was her Tin Man, made without a heart. I decided I was the Wizard, feigning power and bravery when in reality I was just an ordinary person that couldn't give Eric what he really wanted or needed. I couldn't bring Maggie back with any more success than the Wizard in his hot air balloon, because only she had the ability to do that. Three clicks of the heels translated into a few tiny pills for Maggie, and obviously the capsules weren't as glittery and guarded as Dorothy's ruby slippers. Maggie would turn her medication over to the witch in a second. And no bucket of water could destroy the enemy that was in her own head.  
  
I was still humming Dorothy's famous rainbow song the following day when I hefted a black garbage bag out to the dumpster and grunted as I tossed it in. That was one of my least favorite household chores, but somebody had to do it. I rubbed my hands together and jogged all the way back to my building, hesitating in the hall when I saw Mr. Goran leaving his apartment. He was a nosy weasel of a man who ogled Maggie and always smelled like that stuff you put in gerbil cages. I despised the way he pronounced my name, drawing out the vowels like he was the caterpillar in the Alice in Wonderland cartoon. And he insisted on calling me Abigail. Only Maggie called me that, and it was usually when she was mad. I knew he would ask about her since he usually did whenever he caught me alone, so I wanted to avoid speaking with him, but I didn't make it to my door fast enough.  
  
"Good afternoon, Abigail."  
  
I winced and slowly turned to face him. "Hi, Mr. Goran."  
  
He studied me carefully and I could hear him checking off a list in his head: Hooded sweatshirt, wrinkled jeans, tennis shoes, no coat, no gloves, no hat = juvenile delinquent. I gave him a fake, slightly mocking smile.  
  
"Out by yourself again, I see."  
  
"Just takin' out the garbage," I clarified. "Gotta earn my keep."  
  
"I haven't seen your mother out and about lately. I hope every thing is all right in there?" He motioned at our door. "Wouldn't want any problems this close to the holidays."  
  
"Actually..." I narrowed my eyes a bit, deciding to toy with Gerbil Man Goran. If he wanted a story I could give him one. "Mom hasn't been feeling well. She's got that bug that's going around. She's been blowing chunks everywhere for three days straight." My face was still flushed from the chilly jaunt to the dumpster and I took advantage of it, putting the back of my hand against my forehead and acting faint. "I think I might be coming down with it too."  
  
He practically jumped out of his greasy skin when I started a coughing fit, being very careless about covering my mouth. This was too easy.  
  
"I'm so sorry to hear that," he said, tripping over himself to get away. "Give my regards to your mother and feel better soon." He was outside before I had the chance to reply.  
  
I chuckled to myself and thought about a career in acting as I moseyed into the apartment to tell Eric about my little performance.  
  
*  
  
"I took my love and I took it down I climbed a mountain and I turned around And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills 'Till the landslide brought me down..."  
  
I leaned my head against the wall and watched Scott's fingers move effortlessly across the guitar strings. It impressed me that he played with his eyes closed, never even glancing at his hands or sheet music for direction. It just flowed out of him as smoothly and naturally as his own voice. I'd never known anyone who sang so well.  
  
We were seated in the hall, me hugging my knees to my chest and Scott right next to me with his long legs stretched in front of him. I'd been watching TV with Eric, about the only entertainment we had the last couple days, but slipped away as soon as I heard Scott's familiar sounds beckoning me to join him. Mr. Goran peeked out from behind his door and shot me the evil eye at one point, but I just ignored him. All I cared about at the moment was Scott and the song he was teaching me. It was one of his favorites, he said, written by Stevie Nicks at a time when she was uncertain about her path in life and concerned about her father. The story intrigued me and I listened carefully to the lyrics, maybe not fully understanding them but feeling the weight and emotion of them anyway. Stevie's situation had been different than mine, yet her words described something I could relate to.  
  
"Oh, mirror in the sky What is love Can the child within my heart rise above Can I sail through the changing ocean tides Can I handle the seasons of my life Mmmm, I don't know  
  
Well, I've been afraid of changing 'Cause I built my life around you But time makes you bolder Children get older And I'm getting older too..."  
  
Without warning tears glistened in my eyes as he quieted and the mournful tune continued on his guitar as he silently kept time by swaying his head until the next verse. Instead of thinking about him, I found myself thinking about Maggie. My life seemed built around her - taking care of her when she was around, worrying about her when she wasn't. And like the song said, I was getting older too. I wondered if things were going to change for me and if they had changed for Stevie. Was she still scared? I was. Scared of losing Maggie but also scared of never being free of her and growing up to be like her. Scared my brother would find out I didn't know how to handle every curve she threw at us. Scared of how much I wanted to forget all of that, even Eric, and just attach myself to Scott, eating, sleeping and breathing nothing but him. A landslide of fear and uncertainty.  
  
"I've been afraid of changing 'Cause I built my life around you But time makes you bolder Children get older And I'm getting older too  
  
So, take this love and take it down Oh, climb a mountain and turn around If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills Well the landslide'll bring it down  
  
And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills Well the landslide will bring it down"  
  
I didn't even realize the song was finished until Scott opened his eyes and looked at me with genuine surprise, his features going soft and concerned. A steady stream of fat tears had been rolling down my cheeks for the last few verses and my body shook with suppressed sobs. I buried my face against my knees, not wanting him to see. I heard him lay his guitar aside, and then his hand was tentatively on my head.  
  
"Hey there, Nightingale," he said gently, stroking my hair. "I didn't think I was that bad."  
  
I tried to laugh but cried harder instead. His hand in my hair gave me goose bumps. "I'm sorry," I apologized without really knowing why, my words broken by those short little gasps kids do when they've thrown a tantrum and cried themselves silly. Great, I was a baby. "I liked the song. I didn't mean to cry."  
  
"Nothing wrong with crying." He smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear and tried to get me to look at him. "Songs do that to people. Most musicians want their music to get people emotional."  
  
Raising my head a bit, I swiped my sleeve across my face and peered up at him. "Do songs ever make you cry?" I asked curiously.  
  
"If I'm feeling down and something's really bothering me, then yeah," he said, and I caught the allusion he was making. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe away a tear I'd missed. "Helps if I talk to someone about what's on my mind too."  
  
I didn't trust a lot of people, especially with details about my personal life, but Scott was different. He offered an attentive ear to me without sounding like he intended to fix all my problems. He was just there to listen. "She's gone," I blurted, the tears starting again. "My mom. She leaves sometimes. It's usually no big deal, but now it's too close to Christmas. I don't know if she'll be back and Eric has to have presents. He's not even excited anymore. He's just a kid, he should be able to enjoy Christmas."  
  
His arm felt heavy on my shoulders when he laid it there. "What about you?"  
  
"What about me?" I questioned, confused.  
  
"Shouldn't you be able to enjoy it too?"  
  
I wasn't sure how to answer that. Making myself happy wasn't one of my top priorities. "I'll enjoy it if Eric does," I replied with a shrug.  
  
"He's lucky to have a sister like you," Scott said. "I could drop dead on Christmas and my sister wouldn't even notice."  
  
"You have a sister?" He'd never mentioned any family to me before.  
  
"Yep. Jill. My folks kicked me out when I was sixteen and I moved in with her for awhile. It's a miracle we survived each other," he laughed, but I picked up on the sadness in his voice. "I was too wild for her taste. Wasn't long before I moved out on my own. Haven't seen any of 'em since."  
  
How anyone could not want Scott around was beyond me. His family must be as screwed up as mine, I thought, feeling the bond intensify between us at that moment. We had more of a connection than I had realized and I loved him all the more for it, my heart going out to him for whatever pain he might have experienced because of his parents' own stupidity. They didn't know what they were missing.  
  
"Were you scared? Being on your own, I mean."  
  
"It was hard at first. I had to grow up pretty fast." He sounded wistful and it made me want to wrap my arms around him and tell him I understood. I was still too shy to do it. "Hit a couple low points where I didn't think I was gonna make it, but I knew it was too late to ask them to take me back. And I was too stubborn to do it anyway. I kinda wish that part had turned out differently... but the whole experience made me independent and I wouldn't trade that for nothin'. It's a good feeling when you don't have to rely on other people."  
  
I absorbed these little insights into his mind, tucking them away with the rest of the information I'd gained about him since the first day he struck up a conversation with me by the pigeonhole mailboxes near the entrance of our building. He'd seen me opening the box marked "Wyczenski" and questioned me about the pronunciation. I didn't like my last name, but it sounded just fine when he said it.  
  
"You know what I used to do at Christmastime to get into the spirit of things... and make some money to buy myself a gift?" he went on, breaking through my thoughtful silence. When I gazed at him questioningly, he said, "I used to play my guitar on the street corner and sing Christmas carols. It's amazing how generous people can be this time of a year to a kid freezing his ass off in the snow just to earn a couple bucks. Of course, I always tried to look extra pathetic."  
  
He comically demonstrated a waif-like pout, adding a shiver and whimper when I smiled. I pictured him that way as a teenager, not yet fully settled into his grown-up body and just a bit more innocent around the eyes. I wondered if he would have noticed me back then too, or if I would have been just another girl with brown hair and brown eyes. I decided I was glad I'd met him now instead of then.  
  
"So, anyway, don't worry yourself so much. If things can work out for me then I know they'll work out for a smart girl like you," Scott concluded.  
  
I wanted to believe him, but I couldn't get rid of the image of Eric's mopey frown whenever he saw the empty spot under our tree. Then suddenly I had an idea. "Hey, can we do that?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Can we do what you said? Sing for money. I dunno how to play guitar but... but maybe you could and I could sing. I'm not as good as you, but maybe I can make enough to buy Eric something," I explained, looking at him hopefully. He had to say yes. "I can look pathetic too." I stuck my bottom lip forward and sniffled to prove it, not knowing how woeful I already looked with my red nose and tear stained cheeks.  
  
Scott chuckled. "Not bad. You sure you really wanna try it? It gets tedious and not everyone is a big tipper..."  
  
"I'm sure. You'll help me, won't you? Please?" I didn't like to beg, but I had to make him agree.  
  
He searched my eyes with his and must have seen the determination there. "All right, Toots. We can give it a go. How's tomorrow afternoon sound? I'll bring my guitar, you bring that face - they'll be putty in our hands."  
  
"Great! That'll be great," I exclaimed, wishing he hadn't removed his arm from my shoulders now that I had perked up. Oh well, at least I would get to spend the day with him tomorrow. I could hardly wait. 


	5. A Sentimental Feeling When You Hear

Author's Note: The next chapter's taking on a life of its own and getting kind of dark, so here's a little lightheartedness for ya in the mean time. Oh, btw, I feel the need to point out that all the titles I've used are either titles or lines of Christmas songs. And in case this chapter's doesn't quite make sense, it's the line "You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear voices singing 'Let's be jolly, deck the halls with boughs of holly'" from Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Phew, now I feel better. :)  
  
Chapter 5  
  
A SENTIMENTAL FEELING WHEN YOU HEAR  
  
*  
  
"Abby, why can't I come?" Eric whined, tugging on the sleeve of my coat so that I missed putting my arm inside it.  
  
I pulled it from his grasp and got it on this time. When I turned to face him, his arms were crossed in front of his thin chest. "I already told you. It's a surprise and you can't know about it, so you gotta stay here. It's only for a little while. You can handle that, can't you?"  
  
He glared at me and nodded.  
  
"Good." I kissed the top of his head and walked to the door, eager to meet up with Scott in the hall where he'd been waiting on me. My brother was not pleased when he discovered it was our neighbor I was going to be running around with today. I felt kinda guilty about leaving him alone and jealous, but I knew he'd forgive me later.  
  
"You're coming back, right?"  
  
It hadn't occurred to me he might see my leaving as one of Maggie's late night escapes or our father's abrupt departure when Eric was no more than a toddler. And why shouldn't he? When you get used to people walking out on you unexpectedly, it makes you start to wonder every time someone goes out the door if they'll be coming back.  
  
"Of course," I said firmly, returning to give him a reassuring hug. He didn't object and I felt his hands clasp the fabric on the back of my coat like he didn't want to let go. "I promise. Now try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone. No wild parties, no joyriding." We smiled at each other when we separated.  
  
"Lock the door behind me and don't let in any strangers," I added seriously.  
  
He rolled his eyes. "Not even if they offer me candy?"  
  
"Only if it's Sweet Tarts." I waved at him and pointed to the lock before closing the door between us. I waited to hear the click of the bolt sliding into place then hurried towards Scott, who waited by the exit, guitar case in hand.  
  
*  
  
"What if people don't like my voice?" I fretted, glancing over at Scott as he took a final drag on his cigarette. He'd been gentleman enough to ask permission to smoke. My father was a heavy smoker and Maggie lit up from time to time, so it made little difference to me.  
  
"They'd have to be crazy not to. You've got a sweet voice," he said, smashing the cigarette out in the miniature ashtray in the armrest of his truck.  
  
We were parked right in the middle of town where all the biggest stores were packed with last minute holiday shoppers. It would be busy here and lots of people would pass by. And that was precisely the reason why I suddenly felt like a big fat chicken who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. What was going on in my head when I thought I could sing in front of people? The only one I'd ever dared to sing for was Scott.  
  
"First time I heard you sing I thought you were a natural. And I know music, so trust me, ok?" He gave me that trademark wink of his and it was impossible to doubt him. "Ready?"  
  
The butterflies in my stomach multiplied when I nodded and we climbed out of the truck, Scott toting his guitar case to a bench several yards down on the opposite side of the street. Nobody was paying much attention to us while we got set up and I was thankful for that. Heads started to turn, though, when Scott played a few notes of a song and made sure his guitar was in tune. I stood beside him and watched anxiously, repeating in my head what he'd said to me. A natural. Sweet voice. I was his nightingale, I could do this. If only I could will my hands to stop shaking. Self- consciously I folded them together, my fingers intertwining, and stood perfectly still. I had a habit of standing that way and Maggie called it my cherub pose, because she said I looked so innocent and childlike she expected me to sprout wings and fly up to Heaven. She even talked me into posing that way for one of her paintings. It was weird seeing my likeness captured on canvas by her vibrant pastel watercolors that were usually saved for landscapes and such. But I loved that painting and I'd felt special when she hung it in her room, making it a big deal and pretending she was unveiling a masterpiece at an art gallery. One thing I admired most in my mother was her skill at making the simplest thing entertaining and fun. Not only would she stand out here in the cold to sing, she would probably start dancing and perform nothing short of a Broadway musical. By the time she was finished, half the people who tried to pass by would be waltzing in the snow because she'd egged it on. I coveted her amazing ability to make people fall head over heels in love with her, but it was a trait I feared she hadn't handed down to me.  
  
The night before, and on the drive to town, Scott and I had discussed some of the songs I would sing. Most were the traditional Christmas songs everybody, including me, only knew the first few verses to, but he'd been delighted when I told him I knew all the lyrics to John Lennon's Happy Xmas (War is Over). He said I was the coolest thirteen-year-old girl he'd ever met, so I didn't mention that I only knew the song because the choir at my school had practiced it for a Christmas play last year and sang it so many times, their voices echoing through the gym and down the corridors, I had no choice but to have the words crammed into my brain. Scott suggested playing it first to draw people in - Jingle Bells and Silent Night were so overdone that they'd just keep trucking right on by, he said - and then move on to some of the classic stuff. Confident that he knew what he was talking about, I went along with everything he said.  
  
"Make John and Yoko proud, babe," he whispered now, and his fingers were sliding across the guitar strings whether I was prepared or not. I gulped and for one horrifying second forgot every single word that Michael Lane's loud voice had warbled off-key the entire month of choir rehearsals. I almost asked Scott to stop, but as the intro of the song faded to the first verse, I found myself singing. Quietly and uncertainly, yet singing nonetheless.  
  
"So this is Christmas And what have you done Another year over And a new one just begun..."  
  
I glanced fearfully at Scott when a pedestrian paused to look at me and then at the open guitar case in front of the bench. Scott just went on playing and smiled, sitting cross-legged on the cold seat, his body swaying so gently you barely noticed the movement. He was right at home. I tried to embrace that feeling as I sang on, disappointed that my first listener had wandered away. My voice was getting steadier and I chanced raising it a bit so I wouldn't be drowned out by the guitar.  
  
"And so this is Christmas I hope you have fun The near and the dear one The old and the young..."  
  
A tall, pretty woman with fancy clothes and salon perfect tresses stopped to watch. I could feel her eyes studying me, taking in my shoulder length hair that always appeared slightly messy because I hadn't quite mastered the art of styling my unruly waves; my white boots, which were no longer white but more of a spotted gray from walks home in dirty slushy snow; my entire underdeveloped body that didn't seem like it would ever mature to be as feminine and attractive as hers. She gave me one of those smiles, the sympathetic "I feel for you" kind adults give when they get around a kid they think is poor or abused. I'd seen the teachers look that way at a girl in my class who always came to school with bruises on her arms. I'd also caught them looking at me that way the few times Maggie had come to Open House or Parent/Teacher day and caused a scene. Eventually I stopped giving her the fliers that announced those events. And I did my best to avoid those looks. It didn't feel as humiliating now that there wasn't any real call for pity, though. I guess the lady had come to her own conclusions and saw me as a beggar or an orphan that had to sing for her supper. Maybe she thought I had a whole slew of brothers and sisters at home that I had to put food on the table for. Or maybe she thought I'd been abandoned in an alley somewhere and Scott, the poor and lonely soul who had found me, raised me as if I were his own, despite the fact he was barely scrimping by himself. Yeah, I liked that last one the best. I decided that's who I would be today. The poor little waif with no one else in the world but her handsome savior and his guitar.  
  
When I finally had the whole plot arranged in my head, I realized my song was almost finished and a knot of people had gathered alongside the fancy lady to listen and smile and pity me. Some were digging in their purses or pockets, a few tossing loose change as they passed but the more devoted listeners parting with lovely green bills that floated into Scott's guitar case like leaves off a money tree. I don't know if I was most stunned by the cash or the small round of applause I got when the song ended. I figured my audience would move on, and some of them did, but the less rushed looking ones hung around, including the tall lady. I liked her best and snuck an occasional peek at her during my renditions of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and The First Noel. Scott had to feed me lyrics here and there, but I made it through a handful of tunes and got some laughs when I tried out Santa Baby. It was Maggie's favorite Christmas song, so I knew it well and I even dared to add motion. Nothing showy, just a subtle rocking of my so-called hips and shoulders that matched the slow coquettish rhythm of the music. I could tell the onlookers thought it was cute and Scott was grinning widely as he harmonized the background bum-bum-bums of the song. It was my first small taste of the powerful energized sensation performing for a captive audience can bring. Frightening and exhilarating all at once.  
  
"Sing Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer," shouted a little boy who had his father by the hand and was dragging the man over to listen.  
  
And so it went on, carol after carol, until there was a nice pile of coins and bills resting against the red lining of the guitar case, and my throat was dry and scratchy. When we ended the final song and people clapped, Scott jumped up from the bench, grabbed my hand and did a few theatrical bows that made me blush. I was still holding onto his hand, my fingers pink and numb because I hadn't worn gloves, when the only member of my audience who had stuck around for the whole show came forward. It was the fancy lady and she towered above me in her high-heeled shoes. She eyed Scott suspiciously but looked on me with fondness.  
  
"That was lovely," she said, slipping something into my free hand. I knew it was money and I waited to look at it, not wanting to seem greedy.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
She patted my cheek, making me feel about five years old, but I liked her, so I didn't take offense. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I hope you enjoy it." Again she shot a wary glance at my partner, and I felt bad for him. It was a shame she didn't see how wonderful he was.  
  
"Merry Christmas," I returned politely. Scott and I watched her go, her heels click-clacking on the sidewalk, and then he nudged me.  
  
"How much'd you get?"  
  
I opened my hand and unfolded the two bills she had placed there. My eyes widened as I looked at the twenties, then up at Scott.  
  
"Holy..." He was dumbfounded and didn't finish the statement, but I heard the ending in my head. Grins suddenly broke out on both of our faces and he whooped loudly, drawing some stares. "Dang, Nightingale, you put me to shame. I never made that much off one person. Maybe I oughta sign you up to come along on my gigs from now on."  
  
I giggled shyly, flattered and amused by his enthusiasm. "You helped," I reminded him.  
  
"You think anybody cared what I was doing? Hell no, they stopped 'cuz of you." He motioned for me to sit on the bench so we could count the rest of the money. I couldn't resist gazing at him as he shuffled through the change and silently added it with the dollar bills, a smile on his face the entire time. If I had to choose between the money and that smile, I would have taken the smile.  
  
"Fifty dollars and thirty-two cents," he announced the grand total, impressed. "Looks like ol' Eric is gettin' a good present from his sis this year."  
  
"Well, we're gonna split it, right? You and me, I mean. 'Cuz you helped."  
  
"You don't give up, do ya?" he laughed, forcing the cash into my palms. "It's your money. I'm just here for the fun of it."  
  
"But-"  
  
He held up a finger to silence me and sifted through my earnings, plucking out a quarter. "This is all I'm taking. It'll keep me busy at the gumball machines while you shop."  
  
I wanted to give him more, to make him see how important what he'd done was. No one else I knew would have braved the chilly winter air to sing Christmas carols with their kid neighbor. Everyone was always too busy worrying about their own problems, their own needs, their own desires. His willingness to put his life aside for me and treat me like I meant something to him filled up the hole I'd felt growing in me since the day I first realized I wasn't reason enough for Maggie to stay medicated. Sometimes I feared the hole would get so big that I'd just disappear altogether. But Scott kept that from happening. He was my missing piece.  
  
Impulsively I leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek, sure it was the boldest move I'd ever make. It was the same kind of kiss I would give Eric or my dad, yet there was a world of difference. I pictured myself telling him I loved him, but by the time I distanced my face from his, the cold wind skimmed across my lips and snatched the words away, along with my nerve. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher, so I spoke hastily and fumbled at stuffing the money into my pockets. "Th- thanks, Scott. I really appreciate what you've done for me lately. This and helping with the tree and stuff... it means a lot."  
  
"No problem. Anything for my Brown Eyed Girl," he said, catching my hand and placing the softest of kisses on the back.  
  
I melted inside and finally understood why women gushed about men who did stuff like that. It charmed your socks right off, that's why. And it made your stomach do flip-flops and your heart skip a beat and all those other silly little clichés I'd always thought were a load of bull. Nothing I said would have made sense at that moment, so I borrowed a line from the song Scott had just dubbed me after and playfully sang, "Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da..."  
  
Pleased that I'd figured out the reference, he held up his palm for a high five. I slapped it and we hopped off the bench, gathering his guitar case and heading back to his truck to continue with our plans for the day. 


	6. God Bless the Child

Author's Note: I guess I should read over my uploaded chapters before I add them. I didn't realize the song lyrics in chapter 4 and 5 were all run together. They aren't supposed to be like that. I had them nice and perfect. sigh. Just imagine them the right way, 'cause I don't know how to fix 'em. And after all the careful consideration of what Christmas songs to use as titles, I totally went against that this time and used a Shania Twain song title, lol. Anyway! Not to sound all full of myself, but I was really pleased with this chapter and it's my favorite of any that I've written so far. Hope you like it. Thanks for the reviews.  
  
Chapter 6  
  
GOD BLESS THE CHILD  
  
*  
  
"You've never owned a dog??" Scott questioned with disbelief. "Ever?"  
  
"Nope. Maggie doesn't like 'em. The big ones scare her and she says the little ones are so nervous and yappy that she just wants to wring their scrawny necks. Besides, we usually live in places where dogs aren't allowed," I explained. "We did have a cat once, though. Wendy. She was yellow."  
  
"What happened to her?"  
  
"My dad took her with him when he moved out."  
  
An awkward pause followed and I wished I hadn't brought up the stupid cat. Why we were even discussing pets I didn't know. Just one of those weird things that pops into a conversation when one topic leads to another. I liked how that happened with Scott - our chatter meandering along until we'd covered so many stories and details about ourselves that it was impossible to trace back to what had started us telling them. But occasionally there was still that uncomfortable moment, like now, after a sad memory was mentioned and no one knew what to say. The approaching shriek of a siren was a welcome distraction and I twisted in my seat to see the ambulance that was speeding up behind us. Scott slowed to a stop at the side of the road and we both watched as the vehicle whizzed by in a blur of lights and piercing sounds. It turned down the street we were headed for.  
  
"Must be close to us," he observed, accelerating back into the flow of traffic.  
  
Home was only a few blocks away and I was already feeling disappointed that our time together was drawing to an end. I didn't want to go back to my life. I wanted to stay that orphan girl I'd dreamed up. She never had to leave Scott's side. She never had to sit in a boring, lonely apartment and miss people who were off living their lives. But she didn't have a brother named Eric who was waiting - probably very impatiently - for her return either. His presents were in a bag by my feet and I looked at it guiltily. Back to reality, Abby. No more dreaming today.  
  
Too bad my reality had a knack for sucking worse just when I thought it couldn't suck any more.  
  
The ambulance was parked outside my apartment building. Immediately I was concerned about Maggie. I'd lost count of how many times I had to call the hospital because she'd accidentally hurt herself. Mostly she only required stitches because of a run-in with broken glass or some other sharp object that found its way into her hands during one of her fits. I often heard glass shattering in my nightmares and woke up to go check on her. But there had been no noises to warn me before the worst ambulance ride I'd ever taken. The one that wasn't an accident. It was still so fresh in my mind that I could smell the crisp medicine and disinfectant odor that always stayed the same no matter what ambulance or hospital you were in. To me it was a comforting aroma because it meant Maggie would be getting better, at least for a while. That trip to the hospital hadn't looked so promising, though. That was when I realized not all of her suicide attempts were meant to fail.  
  
With those thoughts flashing through my head, it took a second for me to remember that Maggie was gone. I had no relief between that and my next big concern - Eric. He was locked up safe in our apartment, I told myself. But the queasiness in my stomach didn't go away, and as soon as Scott pulled into an alley, our street blocked by the ambulance and a large crowd of people, I flung open the truck door and sprinted towards the scene. Mr. Goran stood outside the circle of onlookers who were obstructing my view. His hands came down hard on my shoulders when I tried to get past him.  
  
"I've tried to tell you kids not to play in the street. He didn't want to listen to me." Mr. Goran turned me around, his fingers encircling my arms tightly and his face lowered near mine. I thought he was going to shake me. "This is what happens when children are left unattended. I should have called the authorities long ago."  
  
I saw his lips moving, but my ears were ringing with the words "Eric's dead." Over and over. Eric's dead, Eric's dead. You weren't here and now he's dead. I squirmed wildly under the older man's firm grasp, fighting him with some of the strength I'd seen Maggie display while three or more people did their best to hold her down. "Lemme go!" I shrieked, drawing the attention of a few curious individuals who moved out of the way long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the paramedics putting a neck brace on my brother. Scott had charged after me and was telling Mr. Goran to let me go, but I got loose on my own with such a mighty tug that I fell into the person behind me. I just wanted to get to my brother. That's all I wanted.  
  
The crowd parted to let me stumble through - I was almost there!- and then I was being held back again, more hands preventing me from the last steps that would have carried me to Eric's side. "Let them take care of this." "You'll be in the way." I felt like I was drowning in a river of their excuses, and the only thing visible to me was a dark trail of blood running from Eric's ear. Except it looked black and I didn't realize it was blood at first. Someone was telling me he'd been hit by a car, but I couldn't make sense of that either. I left him in the apartment where he was safe. Little boys didn't get hit by cars and die two days before Christmas, did they? At least in my world when people left it wasn't because they were dead.  
  
"Please, I need to go to him. He can't die alone," I sobbed, my voice unrecognizable inside my own head. "I'm his sister. Please!" In some childish way I guess I believed please was the magic word that got you what you wanted and I repeated it as I struggled with my captors, hot tears of frustration burning in my eyes as I watched my brother being lifted into the ambulance.  
  
I was still saying it when one of the paramedics stepped down from the vehicle and signaled for the people to release me.  
  
"You're his sister?" the man in white asked.  
  
I nodded, my chest heaving beneath my purple coat.  
  
"Where're your parents?"  
  
I didn't have an answer and I wasn't thinking clearly enough to lie. "Gone."  
  
He spoke quickly, his tone gentle but frighteningly serious. "You can ride in the back with him if you calm down. You have to let us do our job. And he'll be able to hear you, so you don't wanna say things that will scare him. Understand?"  
  
Eric could hear me. That meant he wasn't dead. I latched on to that with every ounce of hope I had in me and nodded again. The paramedic helped me into the ambulance and I forced myself to get a grip, or at least to stop crying so loudly. I didn't feel like I was in control of my own actions or words anymore, like I had stepped away from my body to watch some stranger, a terrified little girl, take my place. It didn't scare me nearly as much as whoever it was that had taken Eric's place, though. My funny, energetic, beautiful baby brother wasn't moving and he seemed uncharacteristically fragile. I normally admired his perfectly smooth skin that hadn't yet dealt with the effects of puberty and all its blemishes, but now it was pale and eerie looking. They'd cut open his shirt to reveal his gaunt torso. He liked to gross me and Maggie out sometimes by sucking in that thin stomach till every rib was visible and Maggie called him Mr. Bones.  
  
If anyone spoke to me on the way to the hospital, I didn't hear it. I was concentrating on the rise and fall of Eric's chest, willing it to continue. His eyelids fluttered several times and even opened once, but he didn't see me and I was too afraid to move or speak. I barely blinked and not a single tear fell as I sent up a silent continuous prayer: Please don't let him die, God. I won't leave him anymore. I won't wish away my family. Just please don't let him die.  
  
When we arrived at the emergency room I hovered in the corner as they hooked Eric up to every wire and machine imaginable. Eventually one of the nurses, a young woman with blond hair that lay in two separate braids on her shoulders, noticed me. As she approached I wondered how old she was. She didn't look old enough to be a nurse.  
  
"Hi there..."  
  
"Abby." My voice came out weakly, so I cleared my throat.  
  
"Is this your brother?"  
  
"Yes. His name's Eric."  
  
"Well, Miss Abby, why don't you and I go find a place to hang your coat while the doctor finishes checking Eric out?"  
  
I looked down at the coat I was holding in my arms. I didn't even remember taking it off, and the last thing I was concerned about was finding somewhere to hang it. "Is he going to be ok? I don't wanna leave him..."  
  
The nurse smiled warmly and laid a comforting hand on my back. "He's doing well, but the doctor needs to run several tests just to make sure. As soon as he's awake you can come back and sit with him. C'mon." She guided me to the door and I let her, too dazed to protest her gentle suggestion. "Are you thirsty? We can stop by the vending machines and get you a pop."  
  
She laughed, an embarrassed, breathy giggle, when my expression remained blank. "I mean a soda. I keep forgetting that's what you call it here. I'm originally from Ohio. Did I tell you my name yet? I'm sorry, how rude of me. I'm Bridget."  
  
Her small talk floated around in my head, not making much sense. I pointed at the picture ID that was fastened to her pink nurse's uniform - it sported the name Bridget Holmes in neat black print. Her cheeks reddened and I felt kinda bad for her. I could tell she was new at this, so I made an effort to speak and ease her nervousness. "I've never been to Ohio."  
  
"Oh, it's... well, it's not that impressive. There are some good amusement parks, if you like that sort of thing." She went on, telling me about the town where she grew up and a bunch of other stuff I knew was just to occupy my attention. I let her ramble, following her lead like an obedient puppy dog as we made our way around the hospital to deposit my coat and grab a soda. I was sipping slowly from a can of Coca-Cola, a beverage Maggie disapproved of and considered addictive, letting the strong liquid cool my dry throat, when Bridget started asking questions about my parents and their whereabouts. I breathed a sigh of relief when I avoided meeting her gaze and saw Scott wandering around the front desk. He hadn't even entered my thoughts since the paramedics closed the ambulance doors and sped down Astrid Street.  
  
"My parents are out of town. On business. We're expecting them back Christmas day," I said with such a natural air I knew she'd buy it. My next fib would be a bit more complicated if she didn't keep quiet around Scott, but I went ahead with it anyway. "Eric and I are staying with a family friend. He's right over there." Before she could quiz me any further, I set aside my Coke and hurried over to Scott. He was saying my brother's name to the desk clerk but cut it short when he saw me.  
  
"Man, I'm sorry. I woulda been here sooner, but I got caught in traffic. How's the kid?" His eyes were big and troubled, his tone concerned. Seeing him like that stirred my already rattled emotions and I welled up with tears.  
  
"He got hit by a car." I choked on the rest of my answer, drifting into his embrace and nuzzling his warm chest. I needed him to hold me. For once I longed to be treated as a child, cradled and comforted by someone I could rely on. When his arms hugged me tight I let go of the burden of being an adult and sank against him to weep. Bridget had followed me and I felt her hesitant touch rub my trembling back as if she also knew how much I needed to be stroked and soothed right then. I wished it was my mother's hand. The hand that could caress you one minute or deliver a startling smack the next.  
  
"Eric's stable. The doctor's with him now," Bridget explained to Scott what I couldn't. "We should know more soon."  
  
I'm not sure how long I stood there wrapped in my Scott and Bridget cocoon. It was peaceful and secure, so I knew it wouldn't last forever. Sure enough, we were divided back into three separate people when the gray haired doctor who was taking care of Eric cleared his throat and singled me out with the eyes that matched his hair.  
  
"Your brother's asking for you." My anxiousness rose visibly and the doctor continued, directing much of what he said to Scott, "He's doing just fine, considering. Most of the injuries are minor, though he did suffer a broken leg and a concussion that's resulted in some inflammation and swelling around his brain. We'll need to keep a close watch on that. He'll have to stay for observation until it's gone down... Are you the father?"  
  
The caffeine from my soda must have kicked in that very moment, because my pulse rocketed so fast I felt a little woozy. "My dad's not here," I said, too quickly.  
  
"I'm... a friend," Scott added.  
  
"Oh." The doctor glanced at Bridget, and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me as she spoke.  
  
"Abby and Eric's folks are out of town, Doctor Blake. The kids have been staying with Mister..."  
  
I kept my gaze focused on my feet as Scott said his last name. "Thomas."  
  
"They're staying with Mr. Thomas but expect their parents back by Christmas day." Bridget flashed me a smile, proud of herself for remembering my story. I didn't let on that I wanted to deck her.  
  
"I see. Well, the parents should be notified. Do you have a way to get in touch with them?" He was looking right at me. My cheeks burned.  
  
"I'll, uh- I'll take care of that," Scott interrupted. My hero. I hated that he was lying for me but loved him for doing it. I thanked him with my eyes and hoped he understood.  
  
*  
  
Eric's pasty face brightened when he saw me. He looked pathetic lying there in his hospital gown with a million tubes and wires stuck to his body. Doctor Blake had explained what some of the machines were for so I wouldn't be frightened, but it was far too late for that. I approached the bed timidly and we stared at each other, my eyes wide and anxious, Eric's groggy and clouded over from his ordeal and the medication. Bridget had accompanied me into the room while the doctor spoke with Scott; I looked at her for permission now. "Can I touch him?"  
  
"Of course." She gave me an encouraging smile.  
  
I cupped my hand carefully around Eric's and tried to think of something to say. This was my brother. I'd spent practically every single day of the past ten years with him. I'd held him in my lap when he was just a baby and I was barely out of diapers myself. Maggie said I even tried to get him to call me Mommy for awhile. And then as we got older I resented him for breaking my toys or never leaving me alone, but I always made sure he had a bedtime story and a goodnight kiss whether or not Maggie participated. When he outgrew that I showed my affection by calling him "doofus" or "butthead," then catching him off guard with a hug he'd groan about. We'd whiled away countless hours playing make-believe games or planning schemes to cheer Maggie when she was depressed. We'd hid behind the couch together the time our father came home drunk and had a screaming match with Maggie, who he was convinced had cheated on him. We'd lied to keep each other out of trouble, we'd tattled to gain favor over one another. We were an inseparable pair, bound in our secrets and scars and all the good times in between. A lot of history to be shared by any two people - and I didn't know what to say to him.  
  
"Abby, what do they do with your clothes when you die?" His perpetually animated features were serious. He looked three years old again, asking me why the sky was blue or why Mommy wouldn't come out of her room to see the picture he'd drawn for her. "Did they give mine to someone else?"  
  
Unprepared for such a question, I blinked dumbly. He thought he was dead. To assure us both of his realness, I laid his hand flat on his chest, my palm covering it. That way he could feel his heart beat and I was once again certain of the breathing, the inhale and exhale that moved our hands up and down, that meant life. "You're not dead, Eric," I said softly, like a louder tone might make it untrue. "You got hurt, but you're not dead."  
  
"Something hit me, I think." He strained to remember, the skin on his forehead puckering.  
  
"A car," I told him. On the way to Eric's room Scott had filled me in on what Mr. Goran knew about the accident. The hit-and-run, actually. The car was blue. The driver didn't even stop to see if Eric was okay. Mr. Goran, the only witness, hadn't caught the license plate number. He had made the call for an ambulance. For that I was grateful, but I wouldn't forget his threat of making another type of call. Had he meant it? I wasn't sure and I decided there was no sense in worrying about it now. My brother was more important. "What were you doing out in the street? You were supposed to stay in the apartment till Scott and I came back."  
  
"You were gone a long time. I got bored."  
  
"So you thought you'd spice things up with a trip to the hospital?"  
  
At last he smiled at one of my jokes. I allowed myself the same respite and bent to kiss him cautiously on the temple. I guess it reminded him of Maggie.  
  
"What if Mom gets back before we do?"  
  
"Don't worry, Scott's gonna take care of all that," I said, warning him not to say more with a glance in Bridget's direction and a subtle shake of my head. I knew he'd catch on. We were pros at keeping everyone in the dark during Maggie's absences. We didn't want to end up like those kids in the TV movies of the week who got split up and shipped to foster homes where they cut off your hair and beat you.  
  
We talked some more until Eric started to doze off in the middle of conversation. I was pretty tired as well, but I insisted on staying with him. Scott stayed too, even though I told him it was all right if he left. We didn't get the chance to be alone so I could explain and apologize for dragging him into my deceitfulness. Bridget kept me wired on Cokes and chocolate bars the whole time and I put up a good fight when sleepiness tried to overwhelm me, but around 10:30pm I felt myself losing to heavy eyelids and a droopy head that jolted me awake when it fell from side to side. In that strange subconscious place between sleep and wakefulness I heard Scott telling Dr. Blake he'd take me home. I was too far gone to object.  
  
There was a blissful weightless feeling of being lifted and then my head found the supporting, if somewhat bony, pillow of Scott's shoulder. He carried me like grown-ups carry small children, front to front in a tangle of arms and legs. As my senses gave way completely, I slipped into a dream that was more of a memory: I'm five years old and my father is holding me. My short arms are stretched to fit around his neck, thin little bird legs wrapped around his waist. Maggie walks beside us, pushing Eric in a stroller. It must be a trip to the park because I see lots of children playing together on swings and slides. But I don't want to join them. They're having their fun, but they don't even know half the joy I feel as I hold onto my daddy and his belly jiggles because he and my mommy are laughing. That's one of my secrets. When we're like this, I know I've got the best family in the world. 


	7. Once Again as in Olden Days

Author's Note, 01-31-03: I'm so sorry this took so long! I wanted it up way before this but the semester started and threw everything out of whack. Stupid school. Hopefully I'll get the rest done sooner. I added a crossover character to this chapter. If you're a Judging Amy fan, I'm sure you'll catch it. And for all you Maura Tierney buffs out there, see if you recognize the little Scotland, Pa reference. :) There's a few references for other things too. If you really wanna know, ask.  
  
Chapter 7  
  
ONCE AGAIN AS IN OLDEN DAYS  
  
*  
  
I woke up warm, burrowed deep inside a wadded mess of blanket. On the wall beside me was a Led Zeppelin poster that perplexed me. I cocked my head and stared at it, my limbs stiff from sleep and unwilling to move. My first thought was that I was at my friend Jennifer's house. She had an older brother who was obsessed with Led Zeppelin and plastered their photos, posters and album covers over every inch of his bedroom walls. But when I finally sat up and took in the rest of my surroundings, it clearly wasn't Jennifer's house. It looked like my apartment, minus the dorky grade school photos - the ones that always managed to catch your worst expression - of me and Eric that Maggie liked to hang up every year, a visual chart of our missing teeth and bad hair days. And instead of Maggie's color coordinated and strategically placed furniture, this room was sparsely furnished with the futon that served as my bed, a couple mismatched coffee tables and a gigantic yellow bean bag. Scott's apartment. I'd never been this inside of it before, but I recognized his style. Everything just looked cool.  
  
It took a second for the previous day's events to sink back in. I wanted it all to be a dream, except for the fun parts with Scott. I wasn't ready to face the stress that awaited me back at the hospital. My shoulders slumped as I sat there wondering how many lies I would have to tell today. At the rate I was going I'd never make it to heaven.  
  
"Mornin', Beautiful," Scott called, peeking his head out from the kitchen. I hadn't even heard him in there. Keeping the blanket bundled around me so that I wouldn't entirely lose the comfy feeling I'd awoke with, I plodded into the other room where he was standing in front of the stove. He smiled at me. "You like eggs and toast?"  
  
I nodded and took a seat at the table. He wasn't wearing a shirt, so I could see every twinge of his shoulder blades, the bulge of muscle in his toned arms and the bumpy ridge of his spine that rippled just the slightest bit as he moved. It had a hypnotic effect and I let my eyes wander aimlessly, curious as to what it would be like to touch those different parts of him, the ones that were off-limits and all the more intriguing because of it. I quickly pried my gaze away when he turned to me with a plate of scrambled eggs and a fork. "You brought me home," I stated the obvious. It was really more of a question. I'd made it clear I wanted to stay with Eric.  
  
"I'll take you back as soon as you're ready," he replied, tossing a piece of hot toast from one hand to the other. He dropped it on my plate then repeated the process with his own. "I didn't figure you'd get very much sleep in that hospital chair. This way you can have a break from that place, get yourself some fresh air. Y'know?" He sniffed at a carton of orange juice before pouring us both a glass.  
  
"Yeah, I guess so. Thanks." I liked that he thought of those things. What I needed. "Hey, Scott?"  
  
He looked right at me. His eyes were even more amazing in the morning light.  
  
"I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this. I shouldn't have said me 'n' Eric were staying with you, but that nurse kept asking me stuff and I didn't know what else to say."  
  
He waved his fork in the air like it was no big deal. "Don't worry about it. I got people crashing here all the time, I barely know the difference." Laughing, he added, "'Cept you and your brother probably aren't as messy as my friends."  
  
Relieved that he didn't seem to mind, I dug into my breakfast hungrily. The eggs were extra salty and the toast was a little burnt, but it tasted good anyway. Scott made it.  
  
"I do think maybe you should call your dad today, though," he said hesitantly. "He should know about Eric... and it might keep that Dr. Blake off both our backs if he comes to the hospital."  
  
My chewing slowed and I took a long sip of orange juice, postponing an answer. I'd already thought about calling my father. Eric would be thrilled to see him and it would certainly take some of the pressure off of me. But it filled me with all sorts of fears and anxieties too. What if he turned me down? What if he didn't love us enough to come? I would rather go on believing he stayed away because of Maggie than find out he didn't want to be around me and Eric either. There was a safety in not knowing.  
  
"Ok." I pushed the eggs around with my fork.  
  
"Can't hurt to try, right?"  
  
I forced a smile and nodded. My first lie of the day. It could hurt a lot.  
  
*  
  
A woman answered the phone on its third ring, just when I was about to hang up. It gave me the chance to put a voice with the smiling face I'd only seen in a grainy newspaper photo announcing my father as a newlywed. Maggie was hell on wheels the day I discovered that article, and I sure got an earful about what a good-for-nothing, worthless drunk, deadbeat father I had. She had even more to rant about when she found out from a friend of a friend of a friend that the new Mrs. Wyczenski already had two kids, ages six and twelve, who my dad planned to adopt. I thought about them sometimes. If they were nice and whether the twelve-year-old was a girl or a boy. Once I even considered calling to ask if could meet them, but I didn't have the guts. They remained mere ages in my head, lucky numbers that made them a bit more worthy of a dad, just as their mother stayed a black and white photo. But now she had a sound and breath - I could hear it through the receiver as I faltered - and she existed.  
  
"Hello?" she repeated, impatient.  
  
"Is... is Jimmy there?" I twisted my fingers into the phone cord.  
  
"May I ask who's calling, please?"  
  
"Abby... his daughter."  
  
It was her turn to pause. I decided her eyes were hazel and that they'd just darkened to a chocolate brown that meant she was unhappy or caught off guard by something. Would she have known who I was if I only said my name?  
  
"Umm, hold on a second, hon."  
  
I took the "hon" as a good sign. Maybe she wasn't all those names Maggie had called her, most of which I was forbidden to use and some I didn't even know the meaning of. I'd learned quite a colorful vocabulary from my mother. My friends got a kick out of hearing me, as they called it, cuss a blue streak when I accidentally jammed my finger or broke a plate during dishwashing duty in the cafeteria.  
  
"Hello?" I heard apprehension in my father's voice.  
  
"Hi, Dad."  
  
"Abby! How's my girl?"  
  
I hated it when adults were phony. At least you knew where you stood with the bullies and snobs and troublemakers who made social life a nightmare in junior high. I hadn't yet reached that point where sucking up to people convincingly got you anywhere. You were either in or you were out. I liked it better that way. "Okay, I guess. But Eric's not," I answered.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"He got hit by a car yesterday. His leg's broken and he has to stay at the hospital 'cuz he hurt his head," I laid it out for him and held my breath.  
  
"Shit. Is he-- how's he doing??"  
  
"They said he's gonna be all right." I was glad he sounded worried. "They wanna keep him until his head's better. I thought maybe... maybe you could visit him. It would probably cheer him up. He misses you." I miss you.  
  
The long silence made me antsy. He was going to say no. I heard Maggie's voice in my head, calling him a bastard.  
  
"I don't know how your mom would feel about that, kiddo. It got pretty ugly the last time I visited, remember?"  
  
How could I forget? He didn't even know the half of it. Unlike him, Eric and I didn't get to leave and miss the big dramatic encore performance Maggie gave. The usual stuff. Lots of crying, lots of screaming. But she always added a few new twists, and that particular episode had included burning every last picture of Jimmy she was able to find. I'd rescued the ones of him holding me and Eric when we were babies, and a family picture taken the Halloween I was Raggedy Ann and Eric was a very disgruntled Andy. He'd changed his mind the day before trick or treating, he wanted to be Pinocchio instead. But Maggie had already finished the costumes and said no one would give candy to Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Pinocchio. My dad made some comment about Maggie's nose being the one that might start growing, and while we were all still laughing, except for pouting Eric, she snapped the picture. Now it was hidden away in a shoebox under my bed with a collection of other keepsakes Maggie couldn't destroy. I didn't hold out any hope that my parents would get back together like a lot of kids with divorced parents did, but I wanted to save a few memories of a time when we were a family.  
  
"Mom's not here. She, um... she's staying with a friend. I can't get a hold of her," I smoothed over the truth for him. My father knew firsthand about Maggie's habit of fleeing, but I think he liked to pretend it didn't happen, tricked himself into believing it stopped as soon as he left. One of those If a tree falls in a forest and no one's around to hear it, does it still make a sound? deals. "The doctor said I should call you. But you don't have to come if you don't want to. Sorry I bothered you."  
  
"No, wait!" he hastened before I could hang up. "I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you kids lately, anyway. Which hospital is it? Lakeview?"  
  
I looked at the doodle I'd absentmindedly sketched on the notepad Maggie kept by the phone. A bunch of crooked flowers with the petals dropping off. He loves me, he loves me not. I added one more petal to the empty circular middle of a daisy and said, "Uh-huh. Second floor, room 12."  
  
"I'll be there around noon, sweetie."  
  
He hadn't called me that in a long time. "Thanks, Dad," I said, smiling. "Bye."  
  
I laid the phone in its cradle and stepped back to look at it, pondering the conversation. Had it actually gone that well? Was I really going to see my dad today? I tried not to get my hopes up that this would become anything permanent, but as I headed to my bedroom to change from the clothes I'd slept in, I felt my excitement build. I couldn't wait to surprise Eric. This would be a way better gift than the stuff I'd bought for him.  
  
After some careful deliberation about what to wear - I wanted to look nice, but not like I was trying too hard - I went with my favorite shirt, a red and yellow jersey with a big 32 on the front that I claimed as my lucky number, and the red jeans that matched. Maggie called it my ketchup and mustard ensemble, teased that I looked good enough to eat. It made me miss her, so I busied myself with my hair, sweeping part of it into a half- ponytail at the back of my head. I finished with a few swipes of Bonne Bell strawberry lip gloss and studied my reflection in the mirror, seeing a younger replica of Maggie. My mouth had a bit more pout to it than hers, she was a bit more apple-cheeked, but it was the same face. Same wide doe eyes. I was going to remind my father of her. Even when she was gone she was with me.  
  
Resolved to the blessing and curse of looking like my mother, I returned to Scott's place where he'd stayed to freshen up. His band was scheduled to play at a club later on in the evening, and they needed to rehearse beforehand, so he wouldn't be able to hang around the hospital with me. I assured him I would be fine, but he didn't seem comfortable with the idea until he was certain my dad would be there. Always thoughtful, he dropped me off at the entrance to Lakeview.  
  
"Good luck," he said, holding out his fist for me to bump mine against. I pretended to be clueless and patted his hand, making him grin.  
  
"You too."  
  
"I'll drop by when I'm done. Later, Toots."  
  
*  
  
I knew something fishy was going on the minute I neared Eric's room and spotted the stranger - a stout woman with a thick mass of coffee colored hair woven into a long braid that stretched to the middle of her back. I noted her casual yet stylish sweater and skirt, the professional looking leather bag that rested by what had been my chair. Just the exterior warned that it was full of files and paperwork. Instincts told me she was not a doctor. And I highly doubted she was a real estate agent. I stood in the doorway, guarded and suspicious, interrupting what appeared to be a lively discussion. My brother smiled innocently at me, his cheeks no longer that ghastly shade of white.  
  
"Hey, Abby! This is Maxine. She's keeping me company since you weren't here," he said matter-of-factly. He pointed me out to the woman. "That's my sister."  
  
Maxine stood up to greet me, her smile warm and pleasant. There was a deep dimple in her left cheek that added to her amiability. It made me even more leery. "Nice to meet you, Abby. Eric here has been telling me all about you. I'm Maxine Gray."  
  
I gave her proffered hand a weak-wristed shake. "Hi." Her eyes were too perceptive. I'd known her for about five seconds and got the distinct impression she already had me figured out. I was the protective older sister who would lie to her without batting an eyelash. But I had her pegged too. Full of questions and clever ways to present them so that unsuspecting kids would rat on their parents. She might be the nicest person in the world, but she was dangerous to me and Eric.  
  
"I bet you're wondering why I'm here," she said, going for the straight- forward approach.  
  
I just looked at her. Maggie always said my expressions spoke for themselves.  
  
"Well, I'll get right to the point then. I work for the Department of Children and Family Services, and it's been brought to my attention that perhaps you and young Eric are being left alone far more often than you should be," Maxine explained. I think she wanted to unnerve me with her bluntness.  
  
It was working.  
  
Eric looked stunned. Poor little guy hadn't even seen it coming. Hopefully he hadn't been too forthcoming with information before my arrival.  
  
"This concerns me a great deal, especially since you kids have clearly run into some problems lately." She indicated my brother and his bright green cast.  
  
"That was my fault," I said too defensively. "I was supposed to be watching him, but I went somewhere with a friend."  
  
"What about your parents? Where were they when it happened?"  
  
I made a mental note to kick Mr. Goran in the shins next time I saw him. "My mom's out of town right now, but a neighbor has been looking in on Eric and me while she's away. He's the one who brought me here and he's coming back later too, so you can ask him yourself. Our dad doesn't live with us, but he's close by. I just didn't get a chance to call him yesterday. He's on his way in today, though. We're not being neglected." Oh, so good, even almost completely true - and then that last part. Less is more, Abby.  
  
Maxine seemed fairly amused by the tone Maggie would have deemed as "sass," that crept into my voice. "I see," she said, taking a moment to eyeball me and make me skittish. Her next move threw me off. "You're how old? Twelve or thirteen? I have a daughter around that age. Her name is Amy. She has a little brother who's eight-"  
  
"What's his name?" Eric butted in.  
  
Maxine grinned and answered, "Vincent."  
  
"That's a funny name."  
  
She chuckled and knelt to shuffle around in her bag, retrieving a photograph that she handed to me before returning to her story. "If anything were to happen to me, I know Amy would do her best to take care of Vincent. They have a very special relationship, and that's just the kind of girl she is. But I would want her to know that she didn't have to do it on her own. She could ask for help. I would want her to so that she and Vincent could have the best care possible. I'm sure that's what every mother wants for her children."  
  
I kept my gaze focused on the picture of a gangly girl with an abundance of reddish curls. She was flanked by a pair of boys, one considerably taller and a bit oafish, the other resembling a mischievous pixie. They looked like a fun bunch. Like kids Eric and I would hang out with. Maxine was smart, pulling me in with a cute photo and an example of what a normal parent wanted for her children. The problem was she excluded herself from the situation. In Maxine's version, Amy would only have herself and Vincent to worry about. But on top of a younger brother, I had Maggie to think of too. If Amy was anything like me, she wouldn't betray her mother either.  
  
"Sounds like you and my mom have a lot in common." I handed the picture back to her and a smiled like she'd just told me a fairytale during story hour at the library. I felt kinda bad for making her job difficult, she was nice after all, but I had no choice.  
  
"You said your mother is out of town? It's Christmas eve."  
  
That hadn't dawned on me until she said it. My days were blurred into each other, and today was just one more to check off on the calendar of how long Maggie had been gone. This was her longest disappearance yet. I wondered if surviving without a mother had a time limit, sort of like how many days you can stay alive without water. What happened when you hit the deadline?  
  
"She... had something important to take care of," I said lamely.  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"It's private."  
  
We went on that way for a while, exchanging questions and, mostly, vague answers. Eric's gaze traveled back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. I tried to keep my cool whenever Maxine involved him in the interrogation. Luckily, he was a good liar. But all of us were getting worn down by the time my dad showed up. I hadn't been so glad to see him since the day he came home from work and subdued a belt-wielding Maggie who was furious that I'd played barbershop on Eric's silky locks. We laughed about it later when she felt better, joked that Eric's remaining patches of curls might start a new fad. But I talked my dad into hiding his belts after that.  
  
"Dad!" Eric all but jumped out of his hospital bed. I stood stonily, not knowing how to express my enthusiasm the way my brother did. There was a hush in the room as Jimmy looked at us, looked at Maxine. We looked back, not only at him but the three strangers bashfully tagging along with him. Two girls and the woman from the newspaper photo. I was wrong, her eyes weren't hazel. They were a pure blue, the kind that really stands out. And she had that gentle, wispy blond hair that looks a little like a halo when light glints on it just right. It was what my girlfriends at school and I considered the perfect combination for boy catching. We called it the Three Bs. Blonde, blue, and, of course, boobs. She had those too. The younger girls, my stepsisters, were fair as well. I locked my fingers together and concentrated on making my eyes and hair less brown. I already didn't fit in with them.  
  
Maxine lessened some of my tension when she excused herself. She didn't go far, though. I could see her patiently waiting outside the room. She wasn't done yet. I could tell my dad was curious about whom she was, but he played the daddy game before asking any questions.  
  
"Hey, squirts!" he said in his booming way. He was like those loud uncles in movies who show up at family gatherings and steal all the attention. Yeah, Uncle Dad.  
  
He went to my brother first, fussing over him so much that Eric beamed from ear to ear, eating it up. It made me happy at first just to watch them getting reacquainted. When it came my turn, I surprised even myself with how quickly and greedily I accepted his hug. I was a starving person who'd had a plate of food placed in front of them. His touch was tender, the kiss on the top of my head full of fatherly affection. I wanted to consume as much of that as possible. But, as ravenous people usually find out, my desire was bigger than what I could take in. Acutely aware of our audience, I let go of him and forbid myself to give in to the lump in my throat. I didn't cry in front of him. It felt too weak and girly. I was his eldest, even more so now, and the one best at putting Maggie back together. The one with a talent for masking emotions, the patience to do so. Happy-go-lucky like Eric, Jimmy hadn't known how to handle a tempest like my mother. He sorta just gave up trying after awhile.  
  
"Look how gorgeous you are," he said, chucking me lightly on the chin. He'd always been a tease, getting smiles out of me that way. "I bet the boys are beating down the door already."  
  
"Yeah, I'm breaking hearts all over town."  
  
He liked my sarcasm, laughing as he turned me towards my family-by- marriage. They readied themselves for introduction. I wondered if they saw Eric and me as a threat. I tried not to resent them for having what was mine, for being normal enough to keep Jimmy content.  
  
"Abby, Eric, I'd like you to meet my wife Julia and her daughters, Sharon and Audrey."  
  
"I'm Audrey," the youngest girl, known to me as Six until now, piped in. She pointed at Twelve. "That's Sharon. We're your sisters." I had a feeling she'd wanted to tell me that since they entered the room.  
  
"Stepsisters," Sharon corrected. I smiled at her anyway and pretended not to notice when Julia nudged her. She was stating the truth, after all.  
  
Julia came forward to shake my hand. "It's so good to finally meet you. We've been wanting to get together with you kids... things have just been so busy lately." She knew it sounded dumb. We weren't at a high school reunion where it was ok to say stuff like that. Of course, there weren't many acceptable excuses for not seeing your kids for five months. Jimmy never gave any. She deserved some credit for trying, I suppose.  
  
"Sure," I said, shrugging it off. My dad wouldn't look at me. He scooped Audrey into his arms and bounced her over to Eric's bed so she could give him the shiny, round Get Well Soon balloon she'd been holding onto the whole time. I kept my eye on Sharon while the others chatted with my brother. She sized me up in return. As usual, I felt rather shrimpy. She was younger, but taller. More filled out. Someone who didn't know our ages probably would have thought she was older.  
  
"You look like that girl from The Miracle Worker," she said, closing the distance between us with a few steps towards me. "Patty Duke. Have you seen it?"  
  
"Huh-uh." I had no idea what she was talking about. I only knew Patty Duke from the reruns of The Patty Duke Show they played on TV sometimes. No one had ever told me I looked like her before. I'd been told I was the spitting image of Gidget, though. Whoever that was.  
  
"Oh. That's my favorite movie."  
  
"Cool." We stared at each other some more, close up now. I couldn't think of anyone to compare her to, so I went with cinema. "Mine's The Shining." Actually, I'd only seen it once and it scared the hell out of me. I'd slept with a light on and the covers over my head for two weeks straight. Maggie swore she'd never take me to another horror movie again. Later that month we saw Friday the 13th. Occasionally we still liked to freak each other out by imitating the cheesy theme that warned Jason was near, chanting it as "chop, chop, chop, chop, kill, kill, kill, kill" in a scary whisper. And I'd almost given her a heart attack the time I used her red lipstick to write REDRUM on the tiled wall behind our bathroom mirror. She helped me wash it off as I mimicked her bloodcurdling scream, and we laughed till our stomachs hurt. She didn't realize I begged her to take me to scary movies because in those rare moments I got to be the frightened kid, hiding against the protective shelter of a brave mother.  
  
"I'm not allowed to watch that," Sharon said, envious and impressed. That's what I was going for. A lot of my friends at school reacted the same way when I told them my mom took me to see it. They said I must have the coolest mom in the world.  
  
"Well, Abby is thirteen going on thirty-two," my dad spoke up, surprising both of us girls that he was listening. "There isn't much she hasn't done."  
  
Eric and I vied for the attention from then on, the adults wanting to hear about school and friends and the other things they didn't really care about but were required to ask. Sharon wanted to know what other semi-grown-up things I had done. Audrey latched on to me, quizzing me on everything from My Little Pony to Care Bears. In no time I had a new little friend. I wanted to love her, to make her my own as easily as she had done with me. For the time being I forgot about Maxine and my missing mother. It was Christmas Eve and I had a family. 


	8. You Can Count On Me

Author's Note, 02-16-03: Well, I wanted to add this on Valentine's Day, but the friggin' site was down. *kicks fanfiction.net* Anyway, here it is. Sorry it took so long. If I could ditch school and become a professional "fanfictionist," I would - lol. Thanks for the reviews of chapter 7.  
  
Chapter 8  
  
YOU CAN COUNT ON ME  
  
*  
  
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Sharon asked. We were walking Audrey to the bathroom, both holding on to one of her hands. When Maxine decided she'd allowed enough time for our Wyczenski reunion, she'd stuck her head in the room and asked to speak with Jimmy and Julia. I could have kissed Audrey for announcing she needed to go to the bathroom right that minute and demanding I take her. It was a much needed escape. But it didn't keep me from fretting over what was being said while I was gone.  
  
"Not really." I thought of Scott, a fond smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "But there's a guy I like."  
  
"I like somebody, too," Sharon confided.  
  
"I know who it is," Audrey said in a sing-song voice. "His name's Kevin and he's fourteen and he's got an earring!" She wrinkled her nose, disgusted with the last detail. "I think he's weird. My boyfriend is a lot cuter."  
  
"You have a boyfriend?" I tried not to appear amused, but it was tough with Sharon snickering the way she was.  
  
"Yep. His name's Fletcher. He kissed me on the playground and now we eat lunch together," Audrey answered proudly. She added a skip to her steps, rocking my and Sharon's arms back and forth like she was rowing a boat.  
  
"Wow," I nodded approvingly. "Be sure to invite me to the wedding."  
  
We all giggled, the sound echoing as we entered the bathroom. Audrey took off to do her business while Sharon and I primped in front of the mirrors like we actually had somewhere to go. She was nice. Deep down I think we both felt a sense of competition with each other, both used to being the big sister, the eldest daughter. Had we lived together, I'm sure we'd have our share of squabbles. But for now we got along just fine.  
  
"Sooo... what's the deal with your mom?" she ventured, leaning her hip against the sink, acting casual. I stiffened. I knew it was coming sooner or later.  
  
"My dad-- Jimmy hasn't told you about her?"  
  
"He says she's nuts," Audrey announced in her stall, her dangling feet the only thing visible under the door.  
  
"Well, she's not." I held back the anger that wanted to surface and defend Maggie, no matter how harshly. I hadn't shown the same restraint during a recess in fourth grade when I pushed a girl off the jungle gym after she made up a song about "Abby and her loony mother." The girl was fine, but I got sent to the principal's office. I'd made my point, though. Neither my tormentor nor any of the other kids in my class teased me about Maggie again. Still, I was glad when we moved and I switched schools. Now I was cleverer, better equipped at hiding Maggie from my friends. The number one skeleton in my closet. "She has an illness that just makes her... moody sometimes, that's all."  
  
Sharon kept looking at me.  
  
"Like permanent PMS," I added, downplaying it with a smirk.  
  
The toilet flushed and Audrey emerged from the stall, hiking up the waistband of her wool leggings then squatting, like a ballerina doing a sloppy plié, to adjust them. I pretended to be interested in watching her wash her hands. She looked at me seriously when I bent to help straighten her crooked skirt.  
  
"You can come live with us if she's mean to you."  
  
"Nah, she's not mean," I said, ruffling the girl's hair. How could I explain to a six-year-old that all the hurtful things Maggie had said or done to me didn't make her a bad person? That when she screamed and cursed at me it wasn't on purpose? Or that when she grabbed me by the arm so hard it left a red mark, it had only been an accident? Part of the disease. Sometimes I didn't even understand it myself. "Mostly just sad."  
  
"It makes me sad when my mommy's sad."  
  
I could almost see the wheels turning in Audrey's brain, piecing this together until she'd concluded that my mother's unhappiness must have a similar effect on me too. She caught me around the waist in a spontaneous hug. "I'm sorry your mommy's sick," she said, her head pressed into my stomach. I wanted to keep her. Maggie was the only other person I knew who was so uninhibited when it came to touch, willing to get close and forget the rules about personal space. It could be smothering at times, especially when she was in your face to argue, but I usually savored it. That superstition kids have about their mother's kisses taking away booboos still made perfect sense to me. Not many people could pull off the kind of pure, selfless intimacy that made a mother's affection so special. The same innocence was there in Audrey's hug.  
  
Wanting to keep her close, I lifted her up on my hip, one arm around her for support. The way Maggie had carted Eric and me around until we were too heavy to be carried anymore. Audrey went right along with this, holding onto me and smiling happily. Sharon, very quiet since her question about Maggie, finally spoke.  
  
"You're gonna have to do that every time you get around her now," she warned as if I'd made a mistake.  
  
"That's ok." I honestly didn't mind.  
  
"What's PMS?" Audrey questioned as we headed out of the bathroom.  
  
Sharon and I were still laughing and dodging an answer when we neared Eric's room, only to meet up with Maxine as she stepped into the hall. Lovely. She looked displeased, unsatisfied with whatever was said while I was gone. I avoided her gaze, but she didn't let that stop her. She handed me a small, white business card.  
  
"It appears I've overstayed my welcome," she said, her smile fixed in place and not as believable as before. "But if there's anything you need..." She paused to let the connotations of what she was saying, or not saying, sink in. "Don't hesitate to call me."  
  
I brushed over the card, reading her name and number, knowing I would never dial the short row of digits. I would probably never see this woman again, unless she went out of her way to check up on me. From my experience, most people didn't do that. Doctors sent you home, teachers excused you for falling asleep in class, family members called once in a blue moon to "see how things are," but nobody really wanted to get involved. I liked it better that way. Other people just threw everything off balance. Nutso as it was, Maggie and I had a system, a familiar routine that we'd perfected through the years. We got bad, then worse, then better. It was the one thing I could count on from her. It kept me together, gave me some focus. Maxine Gray 555-1946 wouldn't understand it. I put her card in my pocket and told her thank you, like a good girl. She'd probably go home now to Amy and Vincent and the other boy. She was probably a good mom.  
  
"Merry Christmas," I said as she walked away.  
  
*  
  
Dad had brought presents. Eric tore into his like a madman, shredding the fancy wrapping I assumed was done at the store. I worried about his head as he let out what can only be described as a war cry and pounded ecstatically on the box of his brand new dart board. He reminded me of a little Indian in a hospital gown. A nurse came in to check on him because she thought he sounded distressed. We all laughed at that and assured her that was not the case. Just a regular boy enjoying his Christmas Eve in the recovery ward.  
  
My gift was a silver charm bracelet, already decorated with a small collection of tiny trinkets. I fingered each of them - the butterfly with blue wings, the ballet slipper, the little gingerbread house. I lingered on the skeleton key, letting it rest against the tip of my index finger. Jimmy looked at me intently and I knew he'd remembered. A few years back I had read The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and, for whatever silly reason kids become so fascinated with such things, I fell in love with skeleton keys. I wanted to collect them, but they were hard to find. I'd always kind of hoped I'd discover one like Mary in the book, solving the mystery of what door it belonged to and opening up a secret world that was hidden from everyone else but the people I chose to let in. And I'd let them all in eventually, same as Mary. That's how it had to happen for the garden to work its magic. Stupid, I know. But it was a nice dream.  
  
"You still like those, right?" my dad asked, tilting his head to see the expression on my face as I looked down at the charm.  
  
I nodded, not chancing eye contact just yet. It was only a miniature key, but it meant something deeper. He thought about me. He remembered he had a daughter who'd liked skeleton keys when she was nine years old. It made my heart hurt, so I closed that part of myself off. Locked it up and threw away the key, you might say. My own secret garden.  
  
"Yeah, it's great, Dad," I told him, smiling brightly and giving him a one armed hug. He mussed my hair then seemed to catch himself, smoothing it back into place. I bet he'd gotten into trouble for doing that to Sharon.  
  
"I picked out the teddy bear," Audrey informed me, pointing to the dangling bear that had a curious resemblance to Winnie the Pooh. "Sharon picked the ballerina shoe-"  
  
"Ballet slipper," Sharon corrected.  
  
Audrey ignored her. "My mommy picked the butterfly. Put it on, Abby." She bared her wrist impatiently, satisfied when I did the same. My dad gestured for the bracelet and worked the clasp open clumsily. I watched his fingers as they struggled to re-hook it around my wrist, tickling my skin. I imagined that same look of intense concentration on his face when I was a newborn and he had to handle itty-bitty onesies with snaps, and diapers. I loved the story of how he and Maggie used to squabble over whose turn it was to hold me or give me a bath. They even flipped a coin for it. Heads - I get her; tails - she's yours. The rules hadn't changed since then, but now the stakes were much higher.  
  
I jiggled my wrist when the bracelet was secured, making the charms jingle and dance. My wrist was too thin to keep it in place, so it slid up and down my arm when I moved. "Thanks everybody," I said, smiling at each of them.  
  
"Dad?" The caution in Eric's voice grabbed my attention. He had each of his darts lined in a row on his bed, the board in his lap, but he wasn't toying with any of it. I absentmindedly began a new habit of twisting my bracelet around my wrist. He didn't look at me. "If they let me go home tomorrow, can we come stay at your house?"  
  
Bull's-eye.  
  
"Well..." Jimmy sent some type of silent signal in Julia's direction. She immediately gathered up her daughters, fudging an excuse that it was time for a snack. Their leaving concerned me. I took it to mean the answer would be no. They wanted to get out while they could, before things got ugly. Before Eric and I ruined their Christmas Eve completely. Fearful for my brother and what a negative reply would do to him, I spoke rapidly.  
  
"We wouldn't have to stay long. He just means for Christmas." This time it was me not looking in Eric's direction. But if he had any objections, he didn't make them known.  
  
"Actually, that's something I wanted to talk about with you kids," my dad said, nervously picking at an invisible piece of fuzz on his shirt. He wasn't even pretending to be easygoing. It made my stomach ache. "Julia and I discussed it on the way here... and that social worker's being here just enforced it-"  
  
I tried to grasp what he was saying. I wanted him to spit it out.  
  
"We'd like for the two of you to move in with us. Permanently. Not just for Christmas," he elaborated, managing a jolly expression now that he'd gotten through what he saw as the hard part. "You wouldn't have to switch schools. Unless you wanted to. I don't know if you guys mind sharing a room? We're remodeling the basement into a den; one of you could take that if you need more privacy. There's lots of great kids in our neighborhood, plenty of places to ride your bikes and play..." He lowered his voice like he was telling Eric a secret. "Just not in the street."  
  
My brother and I finally exchanged glances, his shock as apparent as my own. We'd never been confronted with the option of living with our father, though during many an angry rant Maggie had threatened to send one of us there. We knew it was mostly talk; she barely tolerated sharing us with him as it was. But it kept us in line, walking on eggshells to prevent separation. Now it was being offered to both of us like a treat or a rescue. It felt weird. And tempting. Jimmy's house would come with a family and the kind of normal life my friends had. I wouldn't have to worry about returning home to find a dead body in the bathtub, or talk with angry landlords who hadn't received rent money, or think up ways to protect myself and Eric incase Maggie's new boyfriend of the week was a child molester. I could be thirteen and irresponsible. I could get grounded for talking back to Julia. I could actually invite Jennifer, Dorothy, Howie, and whoever else I wanted, to come over for my fourteenth birthday. The possibilities were endless. I jumped at a response before Eric got the chance.  
  
"We can't."  
  
Eric looked crestfallen. "Why not? I'd rather live with Dad. It'd be fun," he said, taking on that argumentative tone that usually meant a good old- fashioned sibling spat was about to erupt between us. "Why can't we??"  
  
"Because Mom needs us," I answered with a bit more snap than I'd intended. It filled me with guilt. I understood his eagerness to accept Jimmy's offer, probably desired it even more than he did. But it would destroy Maggie. Nothing was worth that. Not even our happiness - at least not mine.  
  
"She does not! All she does is leave. She doesn't care about us; she doesn't try to get better! I don't wanna take care of her anymore. We're the kids, Abby. She's s'pposed to take care of us."  
  
His words stung. They weren't things I hadn't thought of myself, but to hear them said out loud by my brother, the one I counted on to stick by my side when it came to Maggie, shook me up inside. I was angered by his disloyalty, hurt by the truth in what he'd said, frightened that I was losing him, and suddenly more alone than ever before. "It's not her fault she's sick," I said heatedly. "She does the best she can. She always says we're what keep her alive. And at least when SHE leaves, she comes BACK."  
  
"Shut up, Abby!" Eric leaned forward to yell at me, like that might block what I'd said from reaching Jimmy's ears. I saw the moisture in his dark eyes. He hadn't yet mastered holding it in the way I did.  
  
"You shut up!"  
  
"Hey, hey, hey." Gently, Jimmy seized both of us by the shoulder. He pushed Eric back against his pillow. If he felt me shaking, he didn't let on. I was glad he'd stopped us. I didn't approve of my behavior - despised it, actually. Making a big scene was Maggie's style, not mine. She didn't think twice about screaming or arguing in public.  
  
For a seventh grade writing assignment, I'd submitted a poem called "Shame." The teacher praised my work, saying it was one of the most moving and expressive responses he'd seen from a student in a long time. I concocted some goofy story about how I'd gotten the idea, but truthfully it was taken from my experiences with Maggie. The shame I felt when all eyes were on the woman throwing a tantrum in the grocery store or on an airplane, the shame of them watching me try to control her, the shame of them knowing that person they considered a freak was my mother. It amazed and disturbed my friends that I could walk away from insults and fights so easily. They told me to be more aggressive, duke it out. They mistook my bowing out for timidity. But it was just me protecting myself, because nothing any of our snide classmates said or did could bother me nearly as much as chancing a breakdown like the ones Maggie had, to have people look at me the way they looked at her.  
  
"Let's calm down a little bit here," he said, catching me by surprise when he lifted me, his hands hooked under my armpits, and sat me down on the end of Eric's bed. I crossed my arms and stared at the floor. But he made me look at him, raised my chin with his finger so I didn't have a choice. "Look, Abby, I know you love your mom. That wouldn't have to change if you came to live with me. You wouldn't have to stop seeing her or anything. I don't want to take you away from her. But she's a grown woman; she has to take care of herself. You and Eric are still young yet. It's not right for her to run off and leave you alone."  
  
I swallowed the bitter words that seeped onto my tongue, burning it, burning my throat as I pushed them down, down, down. A retreating fire. I craved something that would quench the little flames of hate and sorrow that settled to burn inside me like they always did. Hypocrite, I wanted to sling at him. You can leave, but no one else can. Who was there to help me tackle third grade math? Who'd sat up with me all night, soaking washcloths in a basin and pressing them gently over my eyes because I had such a bad case of pink eye I could barely see? Who was the one that gave me a hug and showed me what to do when I'd gotten my first period? Maggie. My mother. I trusted her a million times more than I did Jimmy. It would have been so easy to say, to yank him down from his high horse and make him face up to the fact that he was no better than her. But I held it in, fearful to start a confrontation that might make him see in me those qualities he so abhorred in Maggie.  
  
"I'll tell you what..." He tapped his fingers against my knees like he was playing a drum roll as introduction to his next sentence. "What if you and Eric stay for a regular visit, and by the time Maggie gets back, if you aren't happy and still don't want to live with me, you can go back to living with her? Sound fair?"  
  
It sounded like trouble. Nothing ever went that smoothly, and whatever the outcome, someone would inevitably be hurt by my and Eric's decision. I could stop it all now with a flat out no; I knew Jimmy wouldn't force me to accept. To be honest, I doubted it was even his idea to ask in the first place. Julia was probably a sucker for a good sob story and talked him into bringing us home, a couple of stray pups to usher in from the cold. Playmates for her real kids. Eventually she'd get tired of us too. Either she wouldn't be able to handle my constant worrying, or Eric's tendency to cling would make her avoid him, or she would tire of the way we both nearly jumped out of our skin if someone moved too quickly or spoke too loudly around us. Whatever the reason, she'd end up wanting to run away from us. Just like everybody else.  
  
"Please, Abby," Eric whispered, his anger replaced with desperation. I made the mistake of looking at him, falling into the trap of his pitiful brown eyes. Whether he meant for them to or not, they were able to manipulate me, cloud my judgment. My reasons for not wanting to agree with Jimmy were swayed by Eric's reasons for why we should. No matter what I said there was no way to completely shield him from being sad in the long run, I might as well choose what made him happiest now.  
  
I focused on Jimmy again, my steady gaze making him uncertain. I think he wanted to back away, but didn't. He stood his ground, his hands cupped on my knees. But I'd already been defeated. "We can try it that way, I guess," I said slowly, quietly. "Until Maggie gets back."  
  
I faked a smile for my brother and my dad, pretending to go along with their talk of how much fun we were going to have together and how it would be nice for Jimmy to have another guy around in a house chock full of females. By the time Julia and the girls returned, it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. None of them recognized my guilt. I told myself I hadn't turned my back on Maggie, it was right and good for me to spend time with these people. But I felt like a traitor. 


	9. Auld Lang Syne

Author's Note, 02-22-03: Well, this was gonna be a lot longer, but I decided to split it up into two chapters (or more, if I'm feeling crazy). Still got a bunch to do, I just love updating. And new reviews are fun to read. (How's that for subtle? :) Btw, I think the story's going to be bumped up to PG-13 come next chapter. No biggie. Just thought I'd let y'all know (and keep ya guessing too. Muhahaha!)  
  
Chapter 9  
  
AULD LANG SYNE  
  
*  
  
"You excited about going home tomorrow?" Bridget placed her stethoscope on Eric's chest in random patterns and seemed satisfied by whatever she heard. I watched with interest, my head against the armrest of my chair, and my legs draped over the other side. Bridget said she didn't know how I could lay like that, but it wasn't that uncomfortable. She had been in the room for a while now, more or less keeping us company. I enjoyed her prattle; let myself get lost in it. I decided she was a lot more interesting than I'd given her credit for. Her life was busy, she loved her job. She had a refreshing air about her that made me wonder how someone achieved such happiness. Was there a secret or was it all just about luck? I crossed my ankles and swung my feet back and forth idly, pondering.  
  
"Yeah, I can't wait!" Eric answered enthusiastically. "I want to play with my new dart board. I'm tired of sitting in this bed, too."  
  
I took a bite of the Snickers Bridget had smuggled in for me and suddenly broke my thoughtful silence. "Are you working tomorrow?"  
  
Her nod was cheerful, same as everything else she did. "Yep, I'll be here to see you off."  
  
"But it's Christmas," I pointed out, storing a glob of chocolate, peanuts and caramel inside my cheek like a chipmunk while I spoke. "Doesn't it suck to work on Christmas?"  
  
She laughed at me, but whether it was because of my scrunched up position, my mouthful of candy bar or my choice of words, I wasn't sure. I liked the sound of it, real natural and convincing, and the way she showed all her teeth. People should always laugh that way - like they mean it.  
  
"Not really. I don't have any family and the hospital is sort of my second home... I'd rather be here than sitting in front of the TV, watching It's a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street for the umpteenth time. Taking care of people is more rewarding. If I can make a few patients feel better on Christmas, then it will be a good day. Just do me a favor, though?"  
  
I paused mid-chew and raised an eyebrow questioningly.  
  
"Eat an extra piece of pie for me, ok? I love pie."  
  
"What kind?" I asked, grinning.  
  
"Any kind. Blueberry, cherry, apple, peach, pumpkin... ooohh, but especially peanut butter." She rolled her eyes and let her shoulders sag like it was too much to bear. "I would kill for a piece of peanut butter pie."  
  
"Here ya go," I said, tossing her the package of Reese's Cups I hadn't yet scarfed my way through. My hospital diet of Coke and chocolate was far from the healthy eating habits Maggie tried to enforce when she had it together. One good thing about her manic episodes was her willingness to stockpile junk food. It was one of the few parts of her illness that Eric and I had no problem taking advantage of. Little Debbies, macaroni and cheese, frozen pizzas and the cupcakes with colored frosting that I had a weakness for were plentiful during those times when she went along with any off-the-wall idea my brother or I had. We could have suggested selling the car to buy a pony or digging a swimming pool in the middle of the living room floor and she would have obliged. Thankfully we knew our limits. Though we did have fun the time we dragged Eric's inflatable wading pool inside during a thunderstorm and splashed around in it, pretending it was a hot day at the beach. "You can slice those up and it'll be like a little mini pie."  
  
"Smart aleck," she said, whacking me playfully on the thigh with the backside of her clipboard as she passed.  
  
"Child abuser," I teased in return, flashing a perfectly innocent smile when she mocked a scolding expression and backed out of the room to carry on her duties elsewhere.  
  
For the first time since the accident I was alone with my brother. Dad had taken Julia, Sharon, and a very restless Audrey home after some persuasion. I insisted on staying behind, not only because I wanted to be there when Scott came but also because I wanted to hold on a while longer to the way things were when it was just me and Eric. Who knew how different our lives would be by tomorrow? Instead of Maggie's kids, we'd be Jimmy's kids. Maybe that meant we wouldn't love or need each other as much anymore. It scared me to think so. I wadded up my empty Snickers wrapper and threw it at him.  
  
"Hey!" He fumbled for it and tossed it back. We laughed when it hit me square between the eyes and dropped to the floor. Leaving it there, I limped over to his bed, stamping my foot a few times to wake it up and get rid of the prickly sensation swarming through it like a cloud of angry bees. Apparently I hadn't been as comfortable as I'd claimed to be.  
  
"A horse is a horse of course, of course," Eric sang, insinuating that I resembled a hoof-stomping Mister Ed. I giggled and shooed him to the far side of the bed, settling into the empty spot beside him. After a great deal of wriggling and knocking against each other, we found a position that suited us both. I snaked my arm around his small shoulders, giving them a squeeze. He pulled my hand over to have a look at my bracelet and its ornaments. I watched as he fiddled with them, his careless little boy fingers probing and pinching at each one until he was familiar with their shape and every tiny crevice. I sensed that he wasn't actually thinking about the charms as he did this. I wasn't either.  
  
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," he said faintly, as if he was talking to my wrist. He waited a while to look at me and I used that interval to study him, my eyes absorbing the details of his features like it was the first time I'd ever seen him. I tried to memorize the way his ear curved and stuck out from his head the slightest bit, how his chestnut curls were starting to loosen into more grown-up waves, the way his bottom lip jutted forward just a little farther than his top. I wanted to remember him that way forever. Beautiful. Perfect. Everything I could have asked for in a brother, but so much more than that. Amidst all my misfortunes, he was the one stroke of good luck. I didn't need the lucky number on my shirt or charms on a bracelet. I had Eric.  
  
"That's ok." I spoke with complete sincerity. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, too. Let's not do that anymore. Deal?"  
  
"Deal." We shook on it and let our hands, still clasped together, drop against our legs.  
  
"Will Mom stop loving us if we live with Dad?" he questioned, and I could tell it had been weighing heavily on his mind.  
  
"Nah."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
I didn't. Maggie loved us, I knew that. But people fell out of love all the time - people a lot more stable than our mother. "Well, remember when we broke her favorite antique lamp? The one with the hummingbirds on it?"  
  
Eric nodded. Actually, there was no "we" involved. He had broken it while attempting some kind of spinning karate death kick he'd seen on TV. He was convinced Maggie would kill him, so I offered to share the blame. She'd have to kill us both, I said. And after seeing the look on her face when she walked in on us cleaning up the mess, I thought she might do just that.  
  
"She didn't stop loving us then. And you know how obsessed she was with that lamp. If she can get over that, she can get over anything."  
  
"Yeah, I guess," he said, doubtful.  
  
"Oh, and she got over me locking the keys in the trunk when we were getting ready to leave for Aunt Shelia's wedding."  
  
A grin finally worked its way across Eric's lips. "She sure was mad," he recalled with amusement. "And then her high heels got stuck in the mud and she couldn't go nowhere 'til she took 'em off."  
  
"And she threw them at the car," I added.  
  
"And cracked the window!" he finished as we began to laugh. The memory of Maggie staggering through wet grass in her confining yellow Maid of Honor dress, cussing like a sailor when she snagged her nylons, and screaming at the trunk to "open, damn you!" never ceased to crack us up. Mostly because she wasn't even manic when it happened.  
  
The reminiscing continued, my plan to make Eric forget his worries a success, until we were so tuckered out from laughter that we gave up and leaned back on his pillow. It was only a little after nine o'clock when his head started to drift closer and closer to my shoulder. When it finally rested there I nestled my cheek into his hair and stayed that way until Scott wandered in, smelling of smoke and exuding an upbeat mood that was going to make it impossible to tell him goodbye.  
  
*  
  
Mom -  
  
We're at Dad's house. Please call.  
  
Abby  
  
I positioned the brief note - scrawled in my sloppy handwriting with Eric's blue Magic Marker - on the table where Maggie could see it right away. After some consideration I grabbed the marker again and neatly printed Jimmy's telephone number under the message, just incase she didn't remember it or forgot it was written in her address book. I underlined the number a couple of times then scanned the paper as if the words might have changed. They sounded too abrupt, but I wanted to explain the situation to her myself, not via a Garfield notepad and Papa Smurf's Periwinkle Blue Pen.  
  
I double-checked my pocket to make sure I had my apartment key. It hadn't moved in the fifteen minutes or so since I put it there. Every bedroom light was out when I checked those too. I even peeked into Maggie's room. She was still gone.  
  
Out of reasons to stall, I finally forced myself towards the front door and flicked the light switch off before I could find some other excuse not to go. It wasn't like I would never be coming back. Right?  
  
Refusing to look in the direction of Mr. Goran's door, I headed down the hall to Scott's place and let myself in. We were going to be roommates for one more night, which meant I'd get to wake up in his apartment for Christmas. It was something I could've gotten used to. But there were two suitcases in the corner to remind me that I would be leaving tomorrow. Scott kept telling me how great it was that Eric and I were going to spend time with Jimmy, but all I could think about was how much I was going to miss the one person who made me feel truly special. Had I been less sensible, I might have begged Scott to keep me. I would do anything he asked me to - anything at all. But imagining myself pleading for something like that made me cringe. And even worse, he might say no. No matter how experienced I was in the rejection department, I couldn't handle it from Scott. That would be too painful.  
  
As usual his musical talents were on display: he was whistling as he skimmed through a pile of cassettes that were dangerously close to spilling off the shelf that held his stereo. I plopped down on the futon and put my feet on the coffee table. Scott had said that was ok or I never would have done it. I wondered what else I could have gotten away with if I stayed with him.  
  
"This is the best song of all-time," he announced, inserting a tape in the cassette deck and making a big show of pressing the play button. I tilted my head a bit to admire him like I always did when he wasn't watching me. God, he was gorgeous.  
  
"You say that about EVERY song," I razzed, my grin widening when he started to shimmy to the music, working all the right body parts. The music started out slow and sensual, and he knew just how to move to it. For some reason I was blushing.  
  
"Well-" He snapped his fingers as he glided across the floor towards me. "You didn't let me finish. This is the best song of all-time... to dance to." I blinked when he held his hand out expectantly. I could see his calluses from guitar playing.  
  
My horrified expression amused him. He rolled his shoulders and beckoned me to stand, mouthing the lyrics as the music picked up a faster, edgier beat. It was a far cry from the catchy, toe-tapping golden oldies Maggie liked to dance to. More than a few times she had cranked the volume to songs like You Can't Hurry Love or Runaround Sue or Do You Love Me, and barged into my and Eric's bedrooms to interrupt homework and draw us into some wild, twirling dance steps. It was during these impromptu lessons that we'd learned the Bump, the Twist, the Mashed Potato, and a handful of other corny dances she'd mastered when she was our age. Occasionally I liked to incorporate a little Michael Jackson or Pat Benatar hip action just to irritate her. But that was all done in fun; a mother and her two kids being goofy together. No way was I doing that in front of Scott.  
  
"Uhhh, no." I lightly pushed his hand away, but he was persistent and brought it back. "Seriously. I-I can't dance. It's painful to watch really."  
  
"Well, I never been to heaven, but I been to Oklahoma," he sang loudly, ignoring my hesitation and pulling me up from the futon. He led me around the coffee table to a spot where we'd have plenty of room. I let my arms go as limp as spaghetti noodles when he lifted them and tried to get me into whatever groove he was in. They dropped to my sides when he let go. He poked me in the stomach as payback then acted stunned when I twisted to dodge the playful assault. "It moves!" he teased. "Keep it up."  
  
I balked some more, but his energy was infectious. Pretty soon he was instructing me on some motions I was almost certain Maggie would not approve of. I played it cool when his hands encircled my hips to rock them back and forth in a way that coincided with his, but I was keenly alert to how near my body was to him. In my head I did a very girlish thing: I screamed. Like one of those crazed fans they showed in old black and white footage of Elvis concerts. It took me a second to realize I was holding my breath. I let it out gradually and tried not to concentrate too hard on the grinding that was going on. It was innocent enough, but it didn't feel so much like a silly game anymore. At least not to me. I touched him tentatively, keeping it disguised as another part of the dance. He wasn't repulsed, he didn't push me away. I was starting to get comfortable with our closeness, when a pounding on the door nearly scared me to death. I jumped back instinctively and hung my head as though I was being scolded.  
  
The banging continued and someone yelled, "Open up, man!"  
  
"Oh great," Scott groaned.  
  
"What?" I asked, clueless.  
  
"It's Andy. He's the drummer in my band," he explained, trudging over to cut Three Dog Night off in mid-verse. I must have looked disappointed, because he smiled apologetically and gave me a wink. "He's an ok guy, just sorta... off-color sometimes. I'll see if I can get rid of him."  
  
Still feeling like I'd been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I kept out of view as Scott answered the door. Andy's voice wasn't the only one to greet him. From the sound of it, there was a whole group of rowdy people waiting to be let in. And none of them was willing to heed Scott's attempts to send them away. My curiosity got the better of me and I leaned forward to have a peek when somebody announced they had a surprise for him. The crowd parted and any shred of hope I had for spending the night alone with Scott disappeared.  
  
She was gorgeous. Her spry auburn curls bounced around her shoulders, mocking my flatter, duller hair. Her skin was impossibly tan for wintertime. Her honey-colored eyes were full of a vibrancy and sparkle that eluded mine. She had curves where she was supposed to have curves, and the crimson dress she wore showed them off like it had been tailored especially for her. I never understood how girls like her - the flawless beauties - didn't freeze to death in such light clothing. The sweater folded over her arm was the only indication that it was cold outside. It simply added to her charm. Even her high-pitched squeal of delight wasn't unpleasant as she dove at Scott.  
  
"Shelly!" he cried, enveloping her in a crushing hug and lifting her right off the floor. Their voices were muffled in each other's necks as they embraced. Shelly started to cry.  
  
"I told ya you should have stuck around at the club, Scottie," said the guy I assumed was Andy. He waltzed into Scott's apartment, slapping Shelly on the butt as he passed her. "This chick wandered in about an hour after you left. Said she just haaad to see you. Being the wonderful human being I am, and knowing how much you both need to get laid, I offered to bring her here. And then I figured, hell, why not make it a party? So I invited everybody." He waved the other people in and grabbed a beer from the six- pack one of his friends was carrying. None of them had noticed me yet. I pressed my back against the wall and tried to be invisible.  
  
"What are you doing back? What happened to California?" Scott was asking Shelly as he returned her to solid ground. She swept a finger under her eyes, halting the tears and not even smudging her mascara.  
  
"We need some music," Andy interrupted. He stopped short, nearly choking on a mouthful of Budweiser when he came towards the stereo and saw me standing there. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded loudly, managing to draw every pair of eyes in the room in my direction. I disliked him already. Heat exploded in my cheeks, spreading right up to the tips of my ears.  
  
"I'm Abby. Scott's neighbor," I said in the voice that always made teachers strain to hear me and inform me I would have to speak up.  
  
"Oh yeah?" Andy sized me up and snickered. "Looks like it's past your bedtime, sweetheart. What exactly has Uncle Scott got you over here for?" He thought he was clever and that I wouldn't understand the insinuating grin he gave his friends. I scowled at him.  
  
"Leave her alone, Andy," Scott ordered, coming to my rescue. He held onto Shelly's hand and brought her over to stand by me. She had a delicate floral scent that tagged along with her. I imagined it flooding into guys' nostrils, intoxicating them and levitating them towards her like that cartoon skunk Pepe Le Pew when he caught a whiff of his next unfortunate victim of passion. "See, unlike some of you, she was invited. She needed a place to stay until tomorrow, so I told her she could hang here."  
  
I was glad he didn't mention I was afraid to be alone in my apartment.  
  
"Well, Mister Congeniality, introduce us to your guest then," Shelly urged, jabbing Scott with her elbow and beaming at me. I smiled feebly in return.  
  
"Everybody, this is my pal Abby. The best neighbor a guy could ask for," he announced, putting his arm around me. It wasn't the same now that it was no longer just the two of us. I was an outsider. A little kid in the way of all the big kid fun. "Abby, that's Ben and Curt," he nodded at the two men who saluted me with their beer cans. Next came a lovey-dovey pair that had curled up together on Scott's bean bag to play tonsil hockey. He motioned to them briefly. "Margo and Pete. And that freak beside you is Andy."  
  
Andy huffed, but thankfully didn't get the chance to speak as Scott went on. "And this..." he said with a hint of awe, "is Ms. Shelly Burke, aspiring movie star and hairdresser extraordinaire." She giggled while he looked at her the way I wanted him to look at me.  
  
Once, while playing in the backyard with Eric, I'd fallen out of a tree and landed smack-dab on my back. It had knocked the air right out of my lungs and made it so painful to breathe that I thought I would suffocate. As I sat there in the grass, wheezing and struggling between the pain in my chest and the pain in my back, my brother had started to cry. Comforting him helped me to focus on something else and eventually my labored breathing evened out. But now as I stood observing the exchange between this girl and my Scott, I felt the same awful constriction in my chest that had been there when I fell out of that tree. And this time there was no Eric around to distract me from the truth. Scott loved Shelly. 


	10. Reindeer Games

Author's Note, 03-12-03: *does a Spring Break happy dance* I still didn't get some of the stuff done in this chapter that I'd planned on. But that just gives me reason to make the story longer, so it's not such a bad thing. Okay, I obviously have nothing interesting to add here. Tada then, darlings.  
  
Chapter 10  
  
REINDEER GAMES  
  
*  
  
My plan to hate Shelly wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. She had the perfect personality to go along with her perfect looks. And she liked me. She told me about her big family and her scads of older brothers and sisters and how she'd always wanted a younger sibling to spoil rotten, a little sister she could teach about makeup and things. She thought it was great that I had a little brother. I decided not to bust her bubble by mentioning that not everybody got to treat their kid siblings like dress up dolls that could be discarded on parents whenever you please. Mostly I just stared at her, comparing and contrasting our features, noting how she walked, perky and self-assured, or tilted her head to talk to me as if I was an irresistible toddler she wanted to cuddle. She was the touchy-feely type, a hand always on your arm or someplace when she spoke to you. I kept our conversation going so she wouldn't talk to Scott and have an excuse to put her hands on him.  
  
"Have you really been in any movies?" I queried, turned sideways on the futon to face her. Most of the guys were in the kitchen, mixing drinks and cutting up. Margo and Pete were still going at it on the bean bag. It was sort of disgusting and fascinating all at the same time. I did my best not to watch, but every so often my eyes drifted off in their direction.  
  
"A couple," Shelly replied, more than happy to discuss her film career. Since her arrival I'd learned that she and Scott knew each other from way back in high school. They'd dated on and off for several years, but Shelly was restless and split for Hollywood the first chance she got. It satisfied me to know that she had ran off, even if Scott had encouraged her to go. I would never have left him that way. "They were small roles but a lot of fun. I've worked with some fabulous people... Sigourney Weaver, Kathleen Turner. They're great gals," she gushed.  
  
I caught myself hanging on every word. I already felt inferior to her; I wouldn't allow myself to be envious because of the names she dropped so breezily. "Never heard of 'em," I lied, cool and nonchalant. No more impressed than I would have been if she had picked the names from a telephone book.  
  
Not only did I know who Sigourney Weaver was, I'd practically worshiped her for months after seeing Alien. I'd even pestered Maggie until she let me lop off most of my elbow length hair so I could wear it more like Sigourney's. I'm not sure who regretted it more - me or my mother. My hair never did lay right after that and Maggie still had several long strands of it, gathered together and tied with a pink ribbon so that it resembled a skinny horse tail, tucked away in her jewelry box. I missed the way she used to play with my hair while we watched TV, running her fingers through it and braiding it, then unbraiding it to start over again. I would sit for hours and let her do that, my body all tingly and relaxed, the occasional quiver shooting right up my spine when she just barely tickled the nape of my neck. She didn't do it anymore, though. Not since I "chopped that hair off," as she put it.  
  
"Is that it?" I asked, incredulous.  
  
Apparently Shelly didn't notice my lack of enthusiasm. She went right on talking about movie sets and how she sometimes worked on hair and makeup. I tuned her out when she got to the part about face structures and which actresses had the best cheekbones. I focused on her lips, red and plump like she puckered them too much. It made me want to march into the kitchen and give Scott a kiss that would make Margo and Pete sit up and take notice.  
  
"Your eyes," she said, suddenly leaning forward to look in them as if they were binoculars, "are marvelous. They're so- so-"  
  
Bored?  
  
"Soulful," she finished. "And big. Most of the girls I work with would do anything for eyes like that. They look so much nicer on screen."  
  
"Yeah?" I cheated, becoming interested.  
  
"Mm-hmm. Add a little mascara and some eye shadow and you'd be ready for the cameras."  
  
I let myself go soft, lowering my head bashfully, forgetting I didn't like her. "I don't usually wear that stuff."  
  
"Oh, you should. You've got such pretty features." She wouldn't let me shy away this time, kept my face up by cupping a hand under my chin. "A few touches of color here and there would just enhance them so much." And then she was digging through her purse for something. I watched apprehensively as she brought out a tube of lipstick.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
She continued rummaging until she'd filled her lap with about as many cosmetics as Maggie kept in the medicine cabinet. "Can I do your makeup?" she practically begged, waving the lipstick around like it was her magic wand. Glinda, the good witch. I shook my head.  
  
"I'll look dumb."  
  
"You will not!" she insisted, almost scolded. "Trust me, I do this all the time. You'll look hot."  
  
I snorted at that last part, but she had my attention. "Can you make me look older?" I ventured, trying not to sound too anxious. Maybe it wouldn't be so tough competing with her if I looked older and "hotter."  
  
"Sure. But I'll actually have to put it on you for that to happen," she said with a laugh, for I had scooted away from her like she might give me leprosy or something. I smiled nervously and edged back towards her. When she displayed the lipstick again, I nodded my consent and she went to work in a flash, dabbing, blotting, powdering, and doing a lot of other stuff that made me feel like a cake being decorated for somebody's birthday. A few sprinkles here, a dollop of icing there, then jam in the candles. Tada.  
  
My eyes were closed while Shelly applied color to my eyelids in short, light strokes. I blinked rapidly when she finished, adjusting to what was probably an imaginary sensation that my eyelids were much heavier now that they were painted. It wasn't until Shelly'd pumped the mascara wand up and down a few times in its tube that I realized we were being watched. Andy sauntered further into the room once he knew I was aware of his presence. I stifled a groan and did my best to ignore him as he surveyed me and Shelly like we were a new car he wanted to buy.  
  
"You stand there long enough, I'll do you next, Andy," Shelly said, her face inches from mine as she concentrated on coating every eyelash with the black Maybelline gunk that kinda made my eyes hazy, like during allergy season. Maybe she's born with it - maybe it's Maybelline. Maybe that's a load of crap the company made up, I thought to myself. In reality the models in the commercials probably went dashing from the set after filming so they could get the mascara off their lashes before they all fell out.  
  
"Fine with me. You can do me as much as you want," he replied, an obnoxious grin on his face as he stretched out on the floor by our feet and propped himself up on his elbows. I rolled my eyes when he saw me watching and puckered his lips, kissing the air.  
  
"Oh God!" Shelly barely flinched as she said it, and it was a good thing, otherwise I would have looked like something right out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. "You are such a pervert," she said to him with enough contempt for the both of us. But unlike mine, I think hers was in jest. "Let's not forget there's a young lady present."  
  
"Oh, right. Wouldn't want to corrupt the young lady," he mocked. "Though it looks like you're doing a pretty good job of that yourself."  
  
"This isn't corruption, it's beauty," she said matter-of-factly. I felt stupid sitting there, not uttering a word in response to any of their comments, but I was afraid to move and mess Shelly up. I didn't really want to talk to Andy anyway. He seemed to be secretly laughing at me every time I spoke. His eyes had a way of following me that made me wish I had more clothes on. He was doing that now, distracting me so much I didn't hear Shelly's question at first.  
  
"Yoo-hoo?"  
  
"Umm, what?" I blushed underneath all the Pan-Cake Makeup.  
  
"Can I take your hair down?" she repeated.  
  
"Oh, uh- yeah." I had no idea why she wanted to do that, but, avoiding a look at Andy, I twisted around long enough for her to remove the ponytail ring that held my hair back. Even then I could sense his gaze taking everything in, from my cascading hair to Shelly's hands combing through it and parting it down the side. For one little second I wondered if Andy wished it were his hands doing that instead of Shelly's.  
  
"There. All finished!" she announced, still positioning wisps of hair as she admired her work. She snapped open a compact and held it up for me to have a look at myself. I barely recognized the person reflected back at me in the mirror. Those were my lips, my eyes, my slightly upturned nose, but they actually stood out now instead of just sitting there on my face like they'd been slapped on last minute and painted over with whitewash. I'd hoped I wouldn't turn out looking like a curious child who'd been playing in Mommy's makeup drawer - and I hadn't. Shelly honestly knew what she was doing. Not that she'd turned me into some glamorous sex goddess or anything, but I felt that I was at least kind of... pretty. And I definitely looked older. Maybe fifteen or a really short sixteen. Which wasn't as good as twenty-two but waaay better than the eleven I could sometimes pass for. I batted my eyelashes to see if the new girl would follow suit, and she did. It really was me.  
  
Andy whistled, reminding me of the reactions Maggie got once when, clad in her snug fitting jeans and low cut peasant shirt, she'd strutted by construction workers on their lunch break. She just laughed at them and whispered in my ear that they were typical male pigs. I think she liked the attention, though. And to be honest, I wasn't completely disgusted by Andy's prowling gaze right then either. "You two could pass for sisters," he observed, balancing a beer can on his stomach. I didn't know whether to resent that or be flattered. As beautiful as Shelly was, I decided it was a huge compliment. Nevertheless, I pictured myself dumping that beer over his head.  
  
"Well?" Shelly prodded impatiently. "What do you think, little missy?"  
  
I wanted to glare at her and tell her I thought if she ever called me little missy again, I might throw up on her. But I kept that to myself. "Nice job," I answered, abruptly closing the compact and handing it back to her. Andy must have picked up on my annoyance - he chuckled knowingly and sipped at his beer. Shelly, as usual, was oblivious.  
  
"You're so modest," she said, grinning. I just looked at her until she hopped off the futon. "I'm gonna go see if Scott has a camera so I can get your picture. Be back in a second," she called over her shoulder, not even hearing my attempts to stop her. I sighed heavily and leaned my head against the futon, staring up at the ceiling to prevent eye contact with Andy. But he would not be ignored.  
  
"You don't say much." He dropped down in the empty spot beside me and I could smell the pungent odor of alcohol on his breath. He put his arm on the back of the futon, his hand practically brushed against my jaw. I sat forward quickly. "Penny for your thoughts," he said, then sneered, "...little missy."  
  
I went for the bait and broke my silence, determined to repay him for calling me that. "Oh, you wouldn't understand anything I have to say. I don't speak Sleaze," I said flatly.  
  
"Ooooooh, Little Missy's harsh," he teased, triumphant that he'd gotten a response. I gave him one of the looks I'd seen Maggie shoot at guys who dared to flirt with her when she wasn't in the mood for it. It froze some of them in their tracks, but others, the guys like Andy, weren't so easily daunted. I wondered if I could seduce him, then leave him high and dry like my mother would have. I'd never witnessed her in action, but I heard plenty of details in over-the-phone conversations she had with her girlfriends following nights on the town. She got a big kick out of her game, leading men on and then pulling the rug out from underneath them when they were stupid enough to believe she was interested. It was nasty, downright cruel. I lay on the rug in our hallway sometimes and eavesdropped as she talked about it, her jubilant giggles floating in from the living room. I imagined myself in her place, stringing along gullible men and loving every minute of it. I enjoyed the idea of having that kind of power, no matter how wrong it was.  
  
"Only when necessary," I replied, purposefully coy. "And just for the record, if you call me Little Missy one more time, I'll make sure people have a reason to call you," I lowered my voice and leaned in secretively, spacing my thumb and index finger apart to indicate a short length, "Little Mister."  
  
He glanced down at his lap for a moment, pensive and serious, then threw his head back to laugh. "You're a riot."  
  
I suppose he could have been drunk, but I liked that he thought I was funny. It was better than that irksome condescending amusement he'd shown for me so far. "Yeah, a real barrel of laughs," I added dryly, studying Margo and Pete who had moved on from all-out spit swapping to an occasional necking between guzzles of whatever alcoholic beverage found its way into their hands thanks to passersby. I pondered what a hickey might feel like. I'd seen older girls at school showing theirs off, their necks exposed as they tugged at the collars of the blue button-down shirts each female student was required to wear under her jumper. A hickey made you famous for at least three days in my school.  
  
"So, what does the thirty-two stand for?" Andy was wiping moisture from his eyes when I turned to look at him quizzically.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"On your shirt," he explained, pointing it out. I inadvertently sucked in a quick breath, tightening my stomach when he reached over and began tracing the numbers on my shirt with his finger. He did it slowly, deliberately, making certain he followed every curve of the path from three to two top to bottom. I was glad I had on long sleeves that hid my goose bumps. I folded my arms across my chest when he finished. "Thirty-two what? Packs of cigarettes you smoke a day?"  
  
"It doesn't stand for anything," I snapped.  
  
"It's gotta stand for something. The number of dead bodies you keep in your apartment...? Umm, your shoe size? Your age? Your..."  
  
"It's your IQ," I interrupted before he could name off any more possibilities that would bring me closer to poking him in the eye to shut him up. I was beginning to lose interest in seducing him. "Yeah, see, this shirt's like a Magic Eight Ball. Only instead of predictions, it tells the IQ of the person looking at it." I pronounced the rest in a very slow sing- song voice, using my hands to emphasize like he was a chimpanzee I was training, "You see thirty-two, so that's your IQ."  
  
"Don't even try to one-up 'er, dude," Scott advised, he and his friends tittering at my insult as they trailed into the room, Shelly close behind with a camera. "She's in a whole other league than you."  
  
I smiled at Scott and forgot about Andy, but I heard him mutter, "We'll see" just before the room got noisy as everyone talked over the music and posed for Shelly to snap their picture. She took a couple shots of the tipsy crowd before singling me out and nearly blinding me with a close-up that left me seeing spots. I almost rubbed at my eyes, but she freaked and forbade me to touch my face lest I smear the new me.  
  
I watched as my doppelganger manifested itself on the Polaroid Shelly handed to me. The 32 on my jersey seemed even brighter in the photograph, screaming at me. I thought about fingers drawing the outlines of those numbers, arching over and between the bumps beneath my shirt, flitting across my rib cage where the bones poked out like rows of strings on a guitar, and dropping down to where my belly button rested just under the three and the two. Not Andy's fingers. Scott's. The ones that knew how to play my emotions as well as any musical instrument.  
  
"Get one of us together, Shel," Scott instructed, crouching beside me, his elbow pressing heavily against my knee to keep him steady. His drink splashed at the edge of his glass, dangerously close to spilling out. He wasn't wasted, but I had a feeling he might be before the night was through. I was the only one without a bottle or a glass in my hand. Even Shelly was pinching the neck of a beer bottle between her knuckles while she took my and Scott's picture. Each swig of alcohol was a reminder that I didn't fit in. As usual Andy caught on to my discomfort and brought it out in plain view for everyone to see.  
  
"Hey, I just noticed you're not drinking anything," he said, socking me lightly on the arm with his fist, like I was an old army buddy he'd bumped into at a bar. "Whatsa matter- can't hold your liquor?"  
  
Scott shook his head as if Andy was the stupidest person on earth. "She's thirteen," he chided, dropping into the chair someone had dragged in from the kitchen. "Just because you've been a lush since birth doesn't mean everyone else is."  
  
"I'll be fourteen in a couple weeks," I mumbled without thinking. It sorta came out on its own, a reaction to the way he said "thirteen" like it was a disease you caught that kept you from partying and being a real adult. Andy would eat it up. But that didn't stop me from adding even more fuel to fire. "I could drink if I wanted to."  
  
No matter how casually I said it, it sounded ridiculous.  
  
"Well, no one's stopping you." Andy dangled a beer in front of me expectantly. I looked at the can and waited for someone to tell me no, for a booming voice - Maggie's or maybe God's - to pour out of the stereo speakers, bringing everything to a screeching halt. I gladly would have endured a lecture on teenage drinking and slunk away without touching a drop of the liquid. I'd seen what alcohol did to people - the way it loosened some of them up so that they did things they normally would never dream of doing, or the way it made them cry and moan about what a meaningless life they'd had. Or other times it just made them say mean, hateful things to the people who loved them. Yeah, I knew a lot about that. But I guess Scott's friends didn't. They watched eagerly to see how I would respond. I hadn't felt so much peer pressure hanging in the air since the time I dared Howie, in front of our entire class, to tell a dirty joke to the teacher. You never saw a group of kids as high-strung as we were that day. I could have had a stroke waiting for him to do it. But unlike me, Howie was smart enough to realize he didn't have to give in to what everyone expected of him.  
  
I gripped the beer can in both my hands, psyching myself up for a drink. My breath came out in a fast, relieved whoosh and whistled through the hole at the top of the can when Scott said, "Don't." It was exactly what I'd been hoping for. I looked at him gratefully.  
  
"Aww, why not?" Andy whined.  
  
"She's a kid," Scott hissed, losing his patience. He might have swung at his friend if his arm could've reached that far. It startled me to see him angry but even more to hear him call me a kid. He hadn't done that before. Sure, we had a mutual understanding that I was a lot younger than him, but neither of us made an effort to point it out. It was more of an unspoken secret, the thing that made our relationship so much better than a regular one. No boundaries to say what we could and could not do because he was a twenty-two-year- old man and I was a thirteen-year-old girl. But now he'd drawn a line. There were rules. He looked at me and saw a child, not the equal I'd fancied myself to be. I didn't know how else to prove him wrong, so I impulsively took a swallow of beer that was way too big. It was either spit it out and look like an idiot or choke it down and pretend I didn't feel like I was drinking warm pee, and I did the latter. I tried not to cry as it slithered around inside me. I almost gagged.  
  
"Shit." Scott leaned towards me, keeping his voice low so only I would hear. "You don't have to drink it. Andy's a prick, don't let him bully you. Here, give it to me." He wanted to grab it from my hands, I could tell. But he was being the cool, understanding guy who let me make my own decisions. I felt sort of powerful right then, very in control of the situation. I might not be able to make him love me, but at least I had his attention.  
  
"It's no big deal," I said, using a flippant tone that Maggie often claimed was the teenager coming out in me. "Cheers," I added, lifting the can as a toast before I took a much more cautious sip. I managed not to wrinkle my nose in disgust and even smacked my lips like the rotten stuff tasted good.  
  
Andy slapped his knee, happy as a clam. "I'll drink to that." He downed the last of his beer and reached for another. I let him put his arm around me. And each time I forced down another mouthful of beer, it got easier and easier to pretend I didn't notice the disappointment on Scott's face. 


	11. A Voice as Big as the Sea

Author's Note, 03-18-03: *cries 'cause spring break is over* This chapter, which originally was gonna be part of chapter 10, is why I kicked it up to a PG-13 story, but I dunno, it might qualify for an R. It might be a tad risqué. But I hate being on the R page. And the story started out so innocently. I dunno. Whatever. Anyhow. it's back to school I go, and the next couple weeks are gonna be hectic, so this might be my only update for a little while. Keep my spirits up with reviews, huh? (sigh, I'm so pathetic.)  
  
Chapter 11  
  
A VOICE AS BIG AS THE SEA  
  
*  
  
I lost track of how much I'd had to drink. The bitterness in my mouth didn't seem to matter after a while and disappeared altogether once my head got fuzzy. I couldn't stop giggling. I practically hyperventilated when Ben tripped over Curt's foot and pulled Scott's curtains right off the rod as he fell. There were plenty of distractions to help skirt the tension between me and Scott and Andy, and I welcomed them. I was so relaxed that I barely noticed when Scott and Shelly started holding hands and whispering to each other. Still, I found myself flirting with Andy. I didn't know if it was out of jealousy or because I actually liked him, or if I simply wanted to play Maggie's game. I really didn't care by then.  
  
I didn't question Andy when he slipped off my sneakers and pulled my feet into his lap to massage them, his thumbs pressing deep into the ball of each foot. I curled my toes until they cracked, the loudness of it making us laugh. He'd stopped picking on me, but we kept up a constant banter just for show.  
  
"Don't rub so hard," I ordered, kicking at him lightly till he obeyed.  
  
"And you say I talk dirty." He wiggled his eyebrows like he was Groucho Marx or somebody.  
  
"Queer."  
  
"Skank."  
  
I flipped him off and closed my eyes, cozy enough to fall asleep thanks to the tranquil drowsy feeling washing over me despite Janis Joplin in the background, hollering to come on, come on, come on, come on and take another little piece of her heart. I tried to sing along, mostly flubbing the words and sounding more hammered than Miss Janis probably was at Woodstock.  
  
"Didn't I make you feel- hmmmhmm, you were the only man," I hummed softly. "Break another little bit of my heart!" I wailed during the chorus and wondered if Scott was listening. Had he ever told Shelly she had a sweet voice?  
  
I suddenly wanted to scream so hard I'd get hoarse and not be able to sing anymore. Ever. Maybe that's why Janis carried on the way she did. Maybe she wanted to destroy all that was in her grasp, the good and the bad. Maybe she knew the curse of clinging to the good and forever watching it slip through your fingers was worse than continuously dwelling in the bad. I started to doze off as the drum pounded out the anger - Janis's and mine.  
  
"Oh no! It's one o'clock!"  
  
I awoke with a jerk and arched my neck so my head was tilted back far enough that I could look at Shelly upside-down. For a minute, I thought she meant 1 in the afternoon and that I was late to meet up with my dad and Eric at the hospital. I was ready to grab my shoes and run, but then I saw that it was dark outside Scott's curtainless window. I squinted at her, irritable that she'd disturbed me for no apparent reason, other than to do a sucky impression of a cuckoo clock.  
  
"And still no Santa...?" Scott tried.  
  
Shelly pushed at his chest and giggled cutely. The slut.  
  
"I was going to surprise you right at midnight. Y'know, for Christmas. But I lost track of time," she explained.  
  
"Surprise me with what?"  
  
"Well, you know how I said I was just back for a visit? That's not entirely true."  
  
"I knew it. You're hiding from the mob," Andy chimed in, but everyone ignored him.  
  
"For the past few months I've been circulating that demo tape you sent me and trying to pull some strings with people that know their way around the music industry. I met a great guy named Larry who really knows his stuff. I didn't hear from him for a while, though, and I didn't want to keep calling and pestering him," she digressed. "But then last week he got in touch with me. Said he had good news. One of the big shots at some record company was really impressed by what he heard on the tape and he would, and I quote, 'love to hear more.'"  
  
Through bleary eyes I watched Scott as Shelly's story unfolded. His face shone the more she went on, until finally he looked like someone had turned a lamp on inside him. I couldn't help but smile, and I hated myself for putting the worry lines around his mouth, though they were gone now anyway.  
  
"He wants another tape?" Scott asked, astonished.  
  
"Not just a tape." Shelly swatted his arm, as if that would clarify her point. "He wants you. Not 'wants you' wants you. Wants to see you," she said, probably to beat Andy to the possibility of twisting her words for a joke. After so long he kind of had a way of getting into your head and making you think like he did. "In his studio. I came home to give you the news and to bring you back to California with me. Assuming you want to go, of course."  
  
I had trouble wrapping my brain, cloudy from the booze, around that one. Of course Scott didn't want to go. He had a life here. His band, his apartment. Me. But as I looked to him for his reaction, the truth hauled off and punched me in the stomach, as it had a habit of doing lately. I evaporated right out of his world- if I had ever really been in it to begin with.  
  
"Hell yes, I wanna go!" he cried, and then everyone was on their feet and talking at once. Andy shoved my feet from his lap with such force that I almost rolled off the futon. The beer he'd rested against the cushion and his thigh tipped over, but I didn't realize it until I felt moisture spreading through the back of my pants, starting to seep into my underwear. It was slimy, made my clothes prune up and stick to my skin when I moved. It reminded me of when I was really little and used to wet the bed. I had vague memories of hiding soiled pajamas at the very bottom of the hamper during the wee hours of the morning. It had taken Maggie forever to figure out why I was always wearing mismatched tops and bottoms when she came in to wake me.  
  
"Son of a bitch," I mumbled, groping for the leaking bottle, which was pretty much empty by the time I got to it. I placed it on the coffee table, where it should have been in the first place, and stood up to brush at the seat of my jeans like that would dry them off. They were soaked and I was sure that if I hadn't already reeked of alcohol, I sure as hell did now. It was in me and on me, and even though it was loathsome, it was also pleasant, because I knew the dull ache in my heart would have grown unbearable without it.  
  
There was a loud thump, followed by peals of Shelly's tinkling laughter, pricking at me like a thousand tiny needles, and I glanced up to see that in the middle of their drunken celebration dance, the happy group had gotten tripped up on Scott's bean bag. Andy lay at the bottom of the pile of human bodies, groaning. Margo and Pete had retired to the bedroom long ago, unaware they'd escaped being crushed just now. I decided it was time for me to slip away as well. Not only did I want to change into dry clothes, I wanted to be someplace where I wouldn't have to watch Scott rejoice because he was leaving. And in the morning, maybe I wouldn't look back when I left with my dad. Maybe I could learn to walk away from people without a second thought too.  
  
I found my shoes but carried them instead of putting them on. Even so, my plan to sneak to the door unnoticed was a miserable failure. I stumbled clumsily, like I was walking on stilts and losing my balance. I kept throwing my arms out every few steps to steady myself. Scott, Shelly, Andy, Ben, and Curt were all looking at me when I paused from my struggle with the two suitcases that seemed to have doubled in weight since Scott and I'd brought them over earlier.  
  
"Where ya goin'?" Scott asked, excitement still in his voice.  
  
"I-- I'm gonna just go stay in my apartment," I tried to say quickly. My tongue didn't want to cooperate, got twisted up in the words. And I felt like my head was inside a fishbowl. "My pants got wet," I added, squirming uncomfortably just at the mention of it. It was right up there with the icky feeling of stepping in water when you had on a clean pair of socks; that aggravating unevenness of one dry sock, one wet. It grated on my nerves.  
  
"Oh, well you can come back after you change," he said, helping Shelly to her feet and slapping Andy's hand away when he acted too helpless to get up by himself. "If you're ready to get some sleep, I'll go clear Pete and Margo outta my room?"  
  
"No thanks." I don't know what got into me. My mouth took on a mind of its own as I opened the door and hobbled backwards a few steps, a shoe tucked under both my armpits and a suitcase in either hand. "I'm sure you and Shelly will need it later. Have fun. And don't worry about driving me to the hospital tomo-- today. I'll call Jim-- my dad for a ride." I hefted the load I was beginning to lose my grip on and started down the hall after telling him, "Bye."  
  
"Wait," he called, but I kept going. I felt like I was walking up an escalator that was moving downward, getting me nowhere fast. I'd barely made any progress by the time Scott's hand caught me by the arm and I dropped a suitcase.  
  
"Leamme alone," I said, shaking him off. I didn't want to turn and look him in the eye, but he forced me to. The confusion I saw there only increased my defiance. He didn't even know why I was acting this way. He didn't understand me at all. I cursed myself for being naive enough to believe there was some kind of special connection between us. Stupid, stupid child.  
  
"What's going on? Are you mad about something?" he questioned, baffled.  
  
"Duh!" I spat with about as much sarcasm as I could muster. It felt awful to treat him this way, but I was already filled up with so much awful that it didn't seem to matter anymore. If I was able to impart to him some of the hurt I'd been feeling all evening, so be it. Never in my life had I been this prepared to inflict emotional pain. Even Maggie at her lowest couldn't possibly feel as mean as I did at mine, I thought. "That's the shittiest party I've ever been to. Your friends are assholes. And if I have to look at you and Shelly hanging all over each other for one more second, I'm going to barf. That'd really kill my buzz. That's why I'm leaving. Go enjoy California with your little movie star."  
  
He was stunned at first but recovered quickly, like it was just a nonsense tantrum I was throwing and he planned to be understanding in spite of it. "Nightingale-"  
  
"Stop calling me that," I snarled. "My name is Abby."  
  
Normally with so much anger raging around in me I would have started shaking, but I wasn't now. Or if I was, I didn't notice. I felt strong, like I could say anything, do anything. I didn't have to be meek and tell him everything was fine like I usually would have. It was such a release, such a heavy load off of my shoulders. I smirked, waved at him and Andy, who was watching solemnly from the doorway, and headed for my door again, only one suitcase still in tow.  
  
"Abby, don't do this. At least take your-"  
  
"Piss off!" I hollered, loving how it came from way down deep, thirteen years worth of shouting stored up to let loose right at that moment. It echoed through the hall, bouncing back to me, inviting me to hear the marvelous fury of it again and again. I hoped everyone in Scott's apartment heard it, I hoped it woke Mr. Goran from a sound sleep. I hoped my mother, wherever she was at this early hour of Christmas morning, felt it vibrating and tingling in her bones till she quaked.  
  
Getting my key in the lock was tricky. I heard Andy tell Scott he'd take care of the suitcase, so I left the door open when I finally got in. Scott, I was pretty certain, would not follow. Carelessly, I dropped everything where I stood and flipped on the light. I kicked my shoes aside as I went over to the couch and flopped down on it, glad to have something more solid than my legs underneath me.  
  
"That is the finest reenactment of The Exorcist I have ever seen. Do you spew pea soup too?"  
  
Flat on my back, I turned my head to glare at Andy. "Put the suitcase down and get out."  
  
"Sheesh, why you attacking me?"  
  
"'Cause I hate you," I said bluntly, closing my eyes to make him go away. There was a silence and then the sound of the front door shutting. Wow. It worked. I smiled to myself, but my triumph didn't last long. The couch cushion by my feet sagged with a weight that hadn't been there before and when I lifted my head to have a look, Andy was seated comfortably in the spot where Eric always sat. I sighed.  
  
"I think you're swell," he mocked, grinning at me like the creepy Cheshire cat from Wonderland; the one that used to give me the willies. I thought about asking Andy if he could stand on his own head. Picturing it made me laugh and he just assumed he was winning me over. "There ya go. Now come sit on Andy Claus's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas."  
  
"Oh geez," I said, groaning as I dragged myself off the couch like I was about 80 years old. There was something odd in him sticking around this way and I figured he might leave if I kept busy. "You are a sad, strange little man."  
  
I had to walk past him to get anywhere, but he caught me by the belt loop of my pants and pulled me down onto his lap. Hooked and reeled in, same as a fish. Would I be gutted next?  
  
"Then why've you been flirting with me all night?" he asked, his voice thick as maple syrup and the softest I'd heard it since we'd met. His finger drifted across my cheek, giving me the shivers, and I resented that he knew so well how to make my body react to the slightest touch, whether I wanted it to or not. I looked at him close-up, trying to see if his eyes were as pretty as Scott's, but they were hidden by his eyelids as he stared down at my mouth.  
  
"I wasn't," I lied, no more believable than if I'd tried to convince him I was president of the United States. We were so close I could see the patches of tiny freckles that were peppered along his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, and the ones at his temples that almost disappeared behind his rust colored hair, like they were trying to escape from his face. Scott didn't have freckles. "I--"  
  
My lips were still parted when Andy kissed me. I thought maybe I should close them, but it quickly became clear that he didn't want me to. So I kept them open, along with my eyes, curious enough about this new territory I'd entered to let him guide me through some of it. I thought about the mouths of the different boys I knew - Howie's, firm and taut with concentration when he played lacrosse; Scott's, soft and flowing as he sang - and how I'd never imagined any of them feeling the way Andy's did, slippery and rough and pushing against mine with such eagerness that I wondered if he'd ever actually kissed anybody before. His lips weren't careful like Scott's had been on the back of my hand that day we sang together. I squeezed my eyes shut real tight and told myself this was the same, this could be like kissing Scott, but it didn't work. Scott wouldn't have put his hands on either side of my head so I couldn't pull my face away. He wouldn't be leaning me against the arm of the couch to keep me even more confined.  
  
I grabbed Andy's wrists and pried at them until he got annoyed and let me come up for air. "That hurts," I said, the words muffled as I dried my lips on the sleeve of my shirt and frowned when I realized my lipstick was probably wiped off by now. I wanted to spit and get the taste of him out of my mouth.  
  
"Quit struggling so much then. You're tense. Loosen up," he instructed, rubbing at my shoulders too hard.  
  
"No. I wanna go change my clothes. I'm wet."  
  
"Well, then we're off to a good start," he murmured huskily, kissing at my ear and not letting me move from his lap. I didn't know what he meant, only that his breath seemed to get hotter when he said it and I thought it might burn me if he kept going.  
  
"Huh?" I asked to distract him.  
  
"Playing dumb now?" Andy snickered into my neck, taking away the mystery of how it would feel to get a hickey. I knew I shouldn't let him, but it was as overwhelming and intoxicating as the liquor had been. Harder to resist the longer it went on. I didn't notice where his hands were anymore. At least not until I felt them exploring the bare skin of my back. "Don't be a tease," he said when I reached around and tugged them from underneath my shirt. He put them there again and I braced myself for his discovery that I didn't wear a bra. But he didn't say anything. Just worked his lips slowly up to mine for another kiss, less aggressive this time.  
  
One of Maggie's paintings that hung on the wall caught my eye, the colors seeming to explode right off the canvas, pinks and greens and purples swirling all around me, washing over me in waves, blocking out the rest of the world and my already altered conscience. I gave in to what Andy wanted, no longer able to distinguish between lust and revulsion. With him they were interchangeable. I concentrated on why his hands disappeared for a minute. Something unzipped. I closed my eyes when we had a short-lived tug of war for my hand and he won, lowering it towards him. I went hollow. Mechanical.  
  
And then her voice filled me up. At least my ears.  
  
"What in God's name is going on in here?" my mother shouted.  
  
I hadn't even heard the apartment door open, so I thought maybe I was just imagining things. But Andy's panicked reaction told me it was real. Our lips made squishy noises when he pulled away. I didn't dare look over my shoulder to see what he was gaping at. I already knew. She was tiny and dark-haired and ready to spit nails.  
  
"Abigail Wyczenski," she barked, making the fine hair on my arms go erect, standing at attention for the drill sergeant, "if you're not off of him in five seconds..."  
  
I scrambled to the other end of the couch before she could begin the countdown to my death and curled myself into a ball, my knees hugged tightly to my chest. She had snatched up one of my shoes from the floor and I ducked my head when she heaved it, stiffening for the impact. It took Andy's loud "Ow!" for me to realize she'd thrown it at him. He was on his feet immediately, clutching at the front of his pants to keep them from falling down around his ankles. My other shoe bounced off his chest and somersaulted wildly to the floor, flipping a few more times, like it was prepared to run too. I would have laughed, but I wanted to remain among the living.  
  
"Get the hell out of my house!" she bellowed. I thought she might throw a suitcase next if Andy gave her the chance, but he didn't. He charged for the door. Didn't even give me one last look. She shoved him as he approached and he zigzagged, crashing into the doorjamb. I watched him grab his shoulder and call her a crazy bitch, then narrowly escape having the door slammed on him in return.  
  
This was the type of drama I was well acquainted with. Except in the past it had always been one of Maggie's lovers being exiled in that fashion. I couldn't suggest pigging out on ice cream and cookies and watching sappy old romance flicks to recover from this. I had no idea what to say or do, my previous experience with her outbursts useless to me now. So when she turned to me seething, I said the first and only thing that came to mind.  
  
"Welcome home." 


	12. Mother and Child

Author's Note, 3-31-03: Yo. Well, this chapter was rather difficult and a bit disturbing to write, otherwise I probably would've had it up sooner. Don't think me too dark and twisted. ;) Thanks for the reviews for chapter 11. "You like me, you really like me!"  
  
Chapter 12  
  
MOTHER AND CHILD  
  
*  
  
We stared at each other for a long, long time, Maggie and I. My breathing was shallow, scarcely getting any air into my lungs, and I thought maybe it was because she was stealing it all for herself with those drawn out breaths she kept taking. So that's how she planned to kill me. It had always been a possibility in the back of my mind since I was about ten years old, but I never could decide how she'd pull it off. The very few people I'd confessed my suspicions to had just laughed at me. Oh, what an imagination you have, they'd say. They weren't the ones who'd gotten chased around the Thanksgiving dinner table with a big knife, though. I could picture them all standing over my lifeless body - still huddled up on the couch like one of those bugs that roll into a ball when you poke at them - and shaking their heads in dismay. What a pity. She had such imagination. And the cause of death? An excruciatingly slow asphyxiation.  
  
There wouldn't even be any blood on Maggie's hands. It was ingenious.  
  
"I better hear some explaining coming out of that mouth of yours, young lady," she finally said, pointing a deadly finger at me. "Right now."  
  
"Can't it wait?" I challenged, stretching my legs out and slouching lazily, my rebelliousness kicking in again. She'd abandoned me for a week, I shouldn't be the one to explain anything first. "I'll be able to lie a lot better when I'm sober."  
  
She blinked like I'd flicked water into her face. I was making things worse, but I didn't care. It was worth it to see her looking so dumbfounded. She probably thought she'd come home to find me and Eric tucked safely in our beds - visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads - and she could wake us up for Christmas morning like nothing had happened, like we'd slept for six or seven days, hibernating till her return. Bull. I wasn't going to let her get away with it this time.  
  
"Sober?" she growled, her fists clenched at her sides. I gritted my teeth a bit. I'd seen her dig her nails into her palms so hard before that they'd left behind little bright red crescent moon shapes that practically bled. If I wasn't careful, I sometimes caught myself doing the same thing when I got too tense. I always felt like I'd been holding fire afterwards. "You have no right to be drinking. You're a goddamn baby! Who gave you alcohol?" she demanded.  
  
"Andy," I yawned. I couldn't look at her hands. It made mine itch.  
  
"Who??"  
  
I grinned. "You sound like an owl."  
  
"Abby-"  
  
"He's the guy you just threw out," I interjected. "Which was very rude, by the way. I didn't even get the chance to introduce you to each other. I wanted to bring him home to meet you and Daddy-- what's his name again? Beau? Where is he, anyhow?" A warning light blinked frantically inside my head, trying to stop me. Too late. Shadows of anger and disgust darkened Maggie's features, the goblins she kept inside emerging to make her more formidable than I could ever hope to be. It was starting to get lonely there on the couch with just me and my sarcasm.  
  
"What is happening to you?" she said, as if mystified by the monster I'd apparently transformed into within the past few days. "You're bringing complete strangers into our home, letting them get you drunk, and having sex with them? You might as well be a hooker."  
  
"Oh God, Mom." I rolled my eyes dramatically. "We weren't having sex! We were just... fooling around a little," I corrected, though it didn't come out as blithely as I'd meant it to. Nothing in Andy's roving fingers had hinted that he was only fooling around. Self-consciously, I slid my own hands under my legs until I was sitting on them, pressing them palms-down into the cushion of the couch incase they'd changed somehow and might tell Maggie more than she needed to know. My pants were still soaked through. "But if he happened to pay me later, who'm I to complain?" I added, unable to shut up.  
  
"You little dip-shit," she said, and I sucked my breath in fast like she'd hit me. After thirteen years and all the things I'd learned to take from her, I'd never gotten used to her calling me names. Maybe because she did it so casually, no differently than if she'd said honey or sweetie or just plain Abby. Even bullies at school had the decency to put some taunt into their name-calling so it didn't sound like a simple fact they were stating. "Men like that don't plan on just 'fooling around' with girls your age. Do you realize what could have happened to you if I hadn't shown up when I did?" she went on, all high and mighty.  
  
"Yes, Maggie, I know," I sighed. "You're my hero. Swooped in to save me in the nick of time. Now you can leave again."  
  
She suddenly burst into tears, whimpering and blubbering and being very pathetic. The whole nine yards. I watched with disdain, familiar with the routine and sick to death of it. Sometimes I doubted if she was really manic-depressive at all. Maybe she was nothing more than a bad wife and mother but a brilliant enough actress that she escaped the blame and made you feel sorry for her in the end. I bet she had Best Actress Oscars stashed away somewhere to prove me right. Well, she could shove 'em. I wasn't falling for it.  
  
I blocked her out as she went on muttering to herself but not before a few words like "whore" and "drunk" slipped through. It made my skin heat up with something beyond anger and embarrassment that there was no term for. Despite my brand-new resolution not to let her hurt me anymore, the room began to shimmer as tears welled up in my eyes. "Like mother, like daughter," I said to the air, figuring Maggie wouldn't hear me. She usually didn't when she worked herself up so much.  
  
"What?" Maggie instantly stopped crying, quick as if she'd flipped a switch that controlled her emotions; one side labeled "Sadness," the other labeled "Mad as Hell." Whoops.  
  
"You heard me," I said bravely.  
  
"Come here." My mother pointed to the area on the floor where she wanted me standing directly in front of her, or rather, in my condition, swaying directly in front of her. Neither of us had moved from the spots we were in when she slammed the door on Andy, I didn't want to be the first to budge.  
  
"No." I tried to be stubborn, but my voice quavered. I'd never said that to her before, at least not that I could remember. A hundred smart aleck quips didn't seem near as risky as that one tiny word that was the ultimate defiance.  
  
"Abby, come here," she repeated.  
  
I hesitated for too many seconds, getting twisted back up in the web she always seemed to trap me in - the cunning spider ensnaring her prey. It was either fight it and wear myself out, only to find I'd gotten nowhere, or let her finish it off swiftly. I didn't feel too well and the quicker option was more appealing, so I stood and shuffled over to her, my steps measured, uncertain. I wanted to lie down to stop the rocking, spinning room. Instead, I reeled violently when Maggie slapped me across the face. It came fast and loud, her open palm a perfect fit against my cheek. I didn't have time to gasp or flinch, but I did put my arm out to break my fall. Sort of like when you're riding your bike and - boom! - a stone or something throws you off balance and all you can do is try to catch yourself as the ground races towards you. My mom had good reflexes, though. She caught my outstretched arm with ease, yanking me upright before I collided with the floor, before my face really started to sting on the one side.  
  
"I'm sorry," I yelped, my socked feet providing no resistance as she spun me around almost like we were dancing. I felt as clumsy as those cartoon characters whose feet and legs go shooting out every which way when they lose their balance. "I'm sorry, Mom," I said again.  
  
"Don't you EVER speak to me that way," she replied, ignoring my apology, driving in each word with her hand smacking me on the butt. I barely felt it through my jeans, her merciless clutch on my arm hurting worse than anything else as she spanked me from the living room to the hallway to just outside the bathroom. People naturally assumed that her small size meant she wasn't very strong, but they didn't know her like I did. "I am your mother!" she reminded me. Always and forever reminding me of that as if I had somehow forgotten. But it was one thing I could never forget. "You don't back talk me, do you hear?"  
  
"I'm sorry." And I hit the bathroom floor hard on my hands and knees because she shoved me forward. My loose hair made a veil that hid my face as I knelt there on all fours like a dog, composing myself, sucking in big gulps of air through my mouth. My arms were shaky, but I locked my elbows and managed not to end up flat on my stomach. The beer churned inside me and I kept my head down because lifting it would have been too much motion.  
  
"You smell like a goddamn brewery," Maggie said, sidestepping me after she'd turned the light on. I stared at the beige floor tiles but still saw her shoes from the corner of my eye as she passed, dangerously close to stepping on my fingers. I was concerned that if she broke one of them I might have to go to the hospital. I didn't want my brother to see me this way. But she was careful of my hands, and her feet wandered off for a moment, out of my view. I heard water running in the sink. "Get up," she ordered moments later.  
  
But I couldn't. "I'm sorry," I blathered weakly, the effort to hold my weight up making me shudder. It started at my shoulders and shook me all the way down to my knees.  
  
"Oh, for Christ's sake." She grew impatient and crouched in front of me, cupping a hand to my forehead, pushing on it until my head tilted back, hair falling away from my face. I finally had the chance to look her in the eye, but there was no sympathy there. I'd hoped she might kiss me, or hold me and say that she forgave me, that she loved me. What I got was a steaming hot washcloth to the face, vigorously scrubbing off my makeup, smothering me for a few seconds at a time. "That junk makes you look cheap," she said, not ceasing till my skin was good and raw.  
  
"Can I go to bed now?" I asked when she finished. I desperately wanted to sleep.  
  
"You're taking a shower first. You stink to high heaven."  
  
I did my best to contribute as we both struggled to get me on my feet, but the floor was like a magnet, pulling me one direction while Maggie jerked me in another. It was too much. I broke free of her hold, crawling rapidly over to the toilet and throwing back the lid. My mind went numb as my stomach took control - or lost control, I guess. Everything seemed to be moving up, pressing and burning at my throat, yo-yoing my insides more than a roller coaster could have. I gagged and sputtered through all the hills, loops, twists and plunges, my fingers gripping the round toilet bowl so tight my knuckles turned as white as the porcelain. I wondered if it was possible to puke up your soul.  
  
"Lovely," Maggie muttered, kind enough to rescue my hair from the smelly, mucky pool it dangled above. She brushed it back with her fingers, giving me twice as many chills. But not the good kind I used to get when she did that out of affection, every bit of love she had for me right there in her hands. It was only an obligation now, done because she didn't want an even nastier mess to clean up.  
  
My body went limp when I finally quit vomiting. I slumped to the floor like a jittery rag doll, leaning against the toilet, letting it cool one of my inflamed cheeks. I was almost fast asleep until Maggie slapped lightly at my other cheek and offered me a drink of water. I accepted, swallowing greedy mouthfuls that set me to coughing. She smoothed the bangs off of my damp forehead, tilted the glass more slowly so I wouldn't drown. I watched her the whole time, my eyes glazing over with tears when she purposefully didn't return my gaze. They spilled out one by one, like a gradual leak was draining me of each drop of water I consumed. I clung to her when she set the glass aside and hugged me.  
  
Then I realized she was just trying to make me stand up again.  
  
"I d-didn't mean what I s-said before," I stuttered in a raspy voice, keeping hold of her as long as she would allow it. Her sturdy arms and the familiar spicy scent of her Estée Lauder perfume made me feel safe, but they both pulled away too soon. She was forever forcing me to stand on my own. "I wanted you to c-come back. We missed you."  
  
"Oh?" Maggie scoffed but left it at that, as though she'd lost the will to be sarcastic. "Lift your arms," she instructed.  
  
So I did. The faucet dripped and neither of us said a thing while she peeled my shirt off, close to taking my face with it when the collar got stuck under my chin and she yanked it loose. I accidentally bit my tongue.  
  
She calmly unsnapped my jeans next, no different than if she was undressing herself, and stripped them down to my feet. I used her shoulder for support, raising first one foot and then the other so she could pull my pants completely off, taking my socks with them. "It's beer," I explained when she noticed the jeans were wet.  
  
"What, were you swimming in it?"  
  
"A bottle spilled," I said, then quickly added, "It wasn't mine."  
  
She shook her head and tossed my clothes into the corner. "Panties," she said, letting me do that part myself. I clasped her shoulder again, nevertheless wobbling to and fro while I shed my last stitch of clothing. Maggie crumpled the underwear into a little white ball and flung it to the pile in the corner as well. She'd probably do the same to me if she could.  
  
I stood there trembling - the after effects of puking my guts out, not because I was chilly or frightened even - and it occurred to me that I should be ashamed. I didn't have much that Maggie hadn't already seen before, but by thirteen you just didn't go prancing around naked in front of people, mom or not. The last twenty or thirty minutes had been so demeaning though, I barely had room for embarrassment. I sniffled, looked blankly at my mother. She expected something; I wasn't sure what. I worried maybe there were marks dotting up the skin where Andy'd touched me, fingerprints left behind at the scene of the crime. I glanced at my bare chest; the soft, doughy part of my belly that caved inward a bit; the bony places where my hips started. It was just regular pale and skinny me. No trace of Andy.  
  
"You should start wearing a bra," she commented offhandedly. It was news to me, but I didn't know whether to smile or what. I opted for covering up instead, shoulders hunched like when I was cold and bundled in a blanket, both arms folded over my breasts. That seemed to satisfy her. She guided me to the bathtub and turned on the shower head, twice as generous with the knob that controlled the cold water as she was with the hot. She put the washcloth with all my makeup on it in my hand. "Get in."  
  
It was like stepping into a hailstorm, millions of tiny frozen pellets bombarding my flesh. It took my breath away in a great big icy whoosh. I instinctively cowered, pressing my backside against the wall, as far from the stinging beads of water as I could get. "Shit!" I said, without thinking.  
  
"Watch your goddamn mouth!" Maggie reprimanded. She pulled the shower curtain shut with a flourish that practically ripped it off its plastic rings. Her form was blurred, muted by the glossy sea shell covered barrier she'd placed between us. Obscured in so much color, she resembled those Impressionist paintings by Monet that she loved to copy. They had a dream- like quality, she said: Monet saw the world through a kaleidoscope. I disagreed. To me, Monet saw himself distanced from the objects he painted. He reached for them and they faded right in front of his eyes, becoming wispy ghosts he could only make tangible with a brush and oil on canvas. Much like looking at someone through a vinyl shower curtain.  
  
"The sooner you clean yourself up, the sooner I'll let you go to bed."  
  
That sounded like a little slice of heaven. I wanted nothing more than to bury myself under a warm blanket and forget this whole damn day had ever happened; pretend I'd never yelled at Eric, never said I'd go live with people that probably didn't want me. Never gotten drunk or felt up by a sicko perv just wanting to get off and using the closest thing to a woman he could find to do it. Never made a fool of myself in front of Scott. Never, never, never. I plunged into the mind-numbing blast of water before me, drenching my mistakes, freezing them out. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, jack frost nipping at your nose.  
  
*  
  
Maggie was gone when I finished showering and eased back the curtain. She'd left a towel on the closed lid of the toilet. I snatched it up, thankful that she favored buying huge beach type towels that you could wrap around your shoulders and still get plenty of covering with, at least down to your shins. I did just that. But a cape was hardly enough to stop the tremors that shook me until my teeth chattered. My lips looked kinda bluish when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not too pretty now, I thought. More like a drowned rat. One that was making a bunch of puddles all over the floor.  
  
I tiptoed out of the bathroom, trying not to drip everywhere, keeping my eyes peeled for Maggie so she wouldn't startle me. My heart fluttered anyway when I rounded the corner to enter my room and found her seated on the edge of my bed. She was holding a piece of paper - I could see my handwriting through the back where Eric's blue marker had bled through - and the two suitcases I'd packed to take to Jimmy's house were open on the floor, the clothes inside rumpled like she'd searched them for clues. I hoped she hadn't tampered with the gifts stored underneath my shirts and pants. Those were for Eric.  
  
"You didn't give me a chance to explain," I said softly, hanging around the doorway where she couldn't reach me. There was no emotion on her face when she looked up, and that scared me more than any of the menacing expressions she had down to an art.  
  
"Explain what? That my children hate me so much they were going to leave me alone on Christmas?"  
  
"No... that's not-- we weren't-" I knew I should want to yell at her, to tell her she had no right to whine about anyone leaving her - the Queen of Desertion. But she'd re-instilled some of my respect that had been lost to alcohol. Or maybe it was just fear. Whatever the reason, I only wanted to patch things up between us and have her need me again. I was nothing if I wasn't needed.  
  
"Save it," she said, letting the note drift to the floor as she went to my closet and gathered some hangers. I watched her carefully, anticipating each move, calculating what would happen next. That was not an easy task with my mother. She dropped the hangers beside my suitcase, the noisy clatter they made not even fazing her. She must have sensed my attentiveness, because she paused in the middle of shaking out one of my sweatshirts and said, "Get that look off your face. You're not going anywhere for a while."  
  
"Okay."  
  
I studied the moist, wrinkly skin on my feet, stuck in a slowly expanding puddle till I had permission to move. My knees twitched like they were trying to make me go, but I waited. That seemed to annoy Maggie even more. She threw me an oversized t-shirt, one of the few items my dad had left behind when he bailed. I used it for a nightgown now. It had a big picture of Jimi Hendrix's face on the front. Maggie hated it.  
  
"I don't know why you would want to stay with your father anyhow," she continued, for the sake of hearing her own voice convince her of how right she was. "He'd fuck you up more than I ever could."  
  
I took my chances and walked over to my bed while she hung a pair of my pants in the closet, her back turned. Mostly I just listened when she ranted about Jimmy. I shut off my true feelings and let her say whatever she felt was necessary. Judging from my stolid expression, she might as well have been talking about the weather or gardening. I'd gotten so good at snuffing out my emotions that I sometimes didn't know what I was feeling at all. But it was strange to know that one person who'd helped create me was thoroughly despised by the person who made up the other half of me - like they were in the middle of combat and I was the battleground. America divided by the Civil War; Maggie my North, Jimmy my South. Slavery or freedom, take your pick. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Ready. Aim. Fire.  
  
"You're already taking after him."  
  
"How?" It slipped out like a cannonball while I dried myself with the towel.  
  
"All he did was drink, don't you remember?"  
  
"You drink sometimes too," I reminded her. Duck and cover.  
  
"Yes, but he drinks excessively. My drinking has never been out of control."  
  
"Oh." I contemplated that for a minute, rubbing the remaining drops of water from my legs. Did control mean passing out on the living room floor with a bottle of vodka in your hand? Maybe because she'd only done that once and the other times she had enough control to stay awake? It confused me. But if I asked about it, she'd probably think I was being insolent or planning a second binge, so I didn't. "Well, he doesn't drink anymore," I informed her.  
  
"Is that so?" She made her voice childish, mocking.  
  
I slipped the Jimi Hendrix shirt over my head. It wouldn't keep me warm enough, but I could change later when Maggie left. "Yeah, he quit a long time ago. After he got away from" - I wasn't listening to myself until the last word came out like a baby's sigh and it was too late - "you."  
  
"Me?"  
  
Mayday, mayday. "I mean us. Us. Got away from us," I floundered. She had an empty hanger in her hand, the wire coiled like a poisonous snake about to strike. I stared at it rather than meet her stony gaze. Those animal documentaries on TV said direct eye contact provoked attacks among some species. Mothers and daughters might be one of them.  
  
"Right. And what makes you think he wants you around anymore now than he did then?"  
  
I folded my towel into a neat square, even though it was soaking wet and would just get thrown in the wash anyway. "He, um, asked me and Eric to live with him." I chewed nervously on my bottom lip as she stepped closer.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I said yes. But only till you got back. I had a good reason. Eric-"  
  
She pointed the hanger at me. "Don't blame this on your brother."  
  
"I wasn't," I insisted. "It was... it was me. I said yes. But he-"  
  
Every muscle in my body tightened when the hanger snapped against the bare skin at the back of my legs. It stunned me that she'd actually done it, actually used such a harsh weapon to get her point across. I was used to getting swatted or grabbed once in a while but usually not whipped with anything other than a hand. I took it pretty well most of the time, but this scared me and I started to cry.  
  
"Why?" she demanded, striking again, higher up where my tie-dyed nightgown served as a buffer. It still hurt. Like the dickens. I jumped forward, covering my butt with both hands, a reflex I was ashamed to give in to. It was something a little kid would do. But I was bawling already, so what did it matter? "You're mine, not his. He doesn't give a shit about you! Why would you choose him over me?"  
  
I couldn't even answer, though the words were right there. If I had opened my mouth, I would have let loose the scream that was building itself up in my legs and arms and knuckles as the hanger whizzed back and forth, biting at them, sinking its teeth in deeper with each stroke. I felt like it was taking little snatches of skin off, but I wasn't sure. My mind told me to move and it seemed an eternity before my feet finally got the message. I clambered onto my bed, catching one last swipe to the belly, and recoiled into that protective ball I'd been in earlier on the couch, my baggy t- shirt making a tent around me. I buried my face against Jimi's where my shrill voice would be muffled, and gave Maggie the answer she wanted. "We needed a place to stay after Eric got out of the hospital!"  
  
The air in the room changed. Maggie gasped. I tensed for another blow, but it didn't come. The sound of the wire hanger hitting the hardwood floor made me cringe.  
  
"Hospital? What?" She grabbed my arm, and I squealed. I couldn't help it. It didn't matter that she didn't do it roughly, just that she was touching me.  
  
"He got hit by a car the other day. He's been in the hospital since. We thought it'd be ok to stay with Dad when he was released. While we waited for you to come back," I tearfully rattled off what I'd been trying to explain to her before, my head raised just far enough off my knees so she could hear me but not see my face. "I didn't know what else to do. Everybody kept asking me questions. Bridget, Doctor Blake, Maxine. Scott said I should call Dad, so I did. I thought it would help. And I told him we wouldn't live with him, but he said you should take care of yourself and he'd take care of us. That's not what I wanted. I'd rather live with you, Mom. But you weren't here. So I said we'd stay for a visit, that way it wasn't permanent. That's why I put the number on the paper, so you could call and come get us. I didn't know what else to do!"  
  
It tumbled out in bunches, like an elevator stuffed with people all pushing and shoving to get off at once, and probably didn't make much sense. But I needed to say it before I exploded, before trying to be perfect and brave for everybody ripped me to smithereens.  
  
The silence that followed made me wonder if Maggie had left while I vented my frustration, but when I peeked up she was there, sagging like a deflated balloon. Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. "Sweet Jesus," she whispered, her hand over her chest like I'd shot her in the heart. I half-expected her to pounce on me, and I readied myself for it when she suddenly moved. But she darted out of my room instead.  
  
Her gut wrenching cry when she opened Eric's bedroom door and didn't find him in his bed made me ache. I put my hands over my ears, rocking myself slightly, because I needed some kind of comfort or else she might just drive me to the brink of madness with her. I thought about hiding, but she returned before I even gathered the courage to sit up straight, let alone leave my pitiful safety zone for a better one. She was so white and shaky that I had to look away, like during an intense scene in a horror movie that makes you avert your eyes for fear of what you might see next.  
  
"I tried to tell you," I said defensively.  
  
"Oh my God," Maggie said, and then kept repeating it as she hurried to my side to pray for redemption. She did penance by examining the puffy welts that looked like pink caterpillars tunneling beneath the skin of my arms, baptizing them in her tears. She rubbed her fingers over them like it would smooth them out and kissed them when it didn't. "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean it," she repented, over and over. Nothing she did came in singles.  
  
I let her hug me, let her cup my face in her hands and shower it with kisses and more tears, but I didn't return any of it. She noticed, and her eyes were begging me for forgiveness when she looked down at me. Vengefulness and spite lay dormant inside me, not even sparked by the memory of how callous she'd been when our roles were reversed and I was the apologetic one. But I couldn't pretend things were just hunky-dory now, either. I was stuck in a rut, waiting for something to push me in whichever direction was best to go. Maggie gave the final nudge.  
  
She got her lithium. She made sure I watched as she placed a pill on her tongue and flushed it down with a long drink of water. Washing away her sins. "I promise," she said solemnly, "I'll take them from now on. No matter what. I swear to God."  
  
I didn't believe her. Not even a little bit. But I had her back for a while, needing me, seeking my approval like an anxious child. I'd learned to take what I could get, to not be greedy and pressure for more. Sometimes people only had so much to give.  
  
I scooted off the bed and went to her, hugging her around the waist, my head tucked under her chin when she rested it atop my hair. She squeezed me so fiercely I thought my ribs might crack. She apologized more, assured me I was loved, inquired about the welts on my body. I gave the best answers I could: Yes, I forgive you. I know, I love you too. No, they don't hurt that bad.  
  
I talked her out of going to the hospital right then to see Eric. He would be sleeping and it would be best to wait till later in the morning, I reasoned. It was selfish of me, but I wanted her to myself for a bit longer. I didn't object when she led me to my bed and got under the covers with me. Despite my exhaustion, I stayed awake for a long time just resting against her, feeling her chest vibrate as she hummed softly. It was an old song by The Mamas and the Papas, a favorite of Maggie's. I knew all the lyrics from hearing her sing them over the buzz of her sewing machine on her good days when she felt motivated to mend clothes or make a new outfit. I fell asleep with the tune in my head, the words making more sense to me than they ever had during safer, happier times: While I'm far away from you, my baby/ I know it's hard for you, my baby/Because it's hard for me, my baby/And the darkest hour is just before dawn/Each night before you go to bed, my baby/Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby/And tell all the stars above/ This is dedicated to the one I love.  
  
I prayed for Maggie in my dreams. 


	13. Noël

Author's Note, 4-16-03: Not much to say, 'cept I'm moving and the semester's about to end, so I've got a crapload of stuff to do. I would like to have spent a little more time on this chapter, but it's already taken forever and I feel I should upload or else I'll just keep putting off school so I can finish the chapter. So here it is.  
  
Chapter 13  
  
NOEL  
  
*  
  
"Abby. Wake up, sweetie," my mother cooed, her voice sounding miles away but still too loud.  
  
I crinkled up my face, not quite able to pry my gluey eyelids apart. I felt like an elephant was sitting on my head. "I'm sick. I don't wanna go to school," I grouched, rolling over so Maggie would stop jiggling my shoulder. She petted my hair and laughed, not getting the hint. Her early morning cheerfulness was irritating. I moaned and made all sorts of wordless complaints, but she was relentless.  
  
"Are you going to sleep through Christmas?" she asked, lifting the pillow I'd used to block out the sun.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All right. Suit yourself. Eric and I will just have to enjoy it without you."  
  
The mention of my brother's name penetrated my groggy, clogged up brain. I rubbed the heels of my palms in my eyes, finally opening them into narrow slits. Blinking took effort. I had to squint at Maggie, bringing her into focus like she was a specimen I was examining under a microscope. She smiled at me, but it looked weary and didn't quite reach her eyes, repelled by the raccoon circles that underlined them. She looked older than I remembered, though still as beautiful. I sensed I'd aged some too.  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"Almost 10."  
  
Ten. I struggled with the number and what it stood for, turning it over in my mind until it didn't sound like a real word anymore. Ten little Indian boys. Ten lords a- leaping. I had a ten-year-old brother. Normally he'd be waking me up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, his face glowing brighter than the angel's on top of the tree. But not this year, because he was confined to a hospital bed and Dad was coming to get us. At ten.  
  
"Oh crap," I said, rising up from my pillow so fast I had to put my hand to my head and make sure it hadn't been knocked off by a sledgehammer. Maggie touched my shoulder, concerned. On the other side of my pounding temples sketchy memories began to surface. They were diluted by frigid water the color of vomit and beige floor tiles, littered with misshapen hangers and beer bottles that had phallic necks, the labels peeled off and stuck inside - a personal touch Andy added to all the bottles he got his restless drum- playing fingers on. The murkiness didn't last long enough, though. I would have preferred to keep the worst details as vague as possible, but they were the most memorable instead.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
I noticed she'd put all the hangers away and shut the closet door. I was glad. "Dad's supposed to be at the hospital to get me and Eric at 10," I said warily, beginning to itch. I didn't even realize why until I scratched absentmindedly at the faded candy cane stripes crisscrossing up my arms, and Maggie's eyes got misty. She took my hand and stroked it when I let it fall onto the bed, playing with my fingers, lacing them with hers. They mingled so perfectly I could barely distinguish between us. Her colorless lips stamped a hasty kiss on the back of my hand, and she sniffed, a sharp resolution.  
  
"We won't be too late if you hurry and get dressed." She drew back the bedclothes and patted my thigh to get me moving. "C'mon."  
  
"Do you want me to talk to Dad?" I asked carefully, sliding my feet to the floor but remaining seated. It was as hurried as I was going to get right then. "I can go in first and tell him me and Eric aren't gonna stay with him, then you can come in after he leaves. If that's ok? I just-- I don't think it would be a good idea for you guys to get into an argument in the hospital, since-"  
  
Maggie held up a non-threatening palm to silence me. "I'm not going to argue with your father, Abby. You and Eric can stay with him..." She forced, "As long as you like."  
  
The seesaw my life was balanced on tipped in the opposite direction, sailing me through the air, up, up and away. Only, my seesaw didn't have a handlebar, and I knew eventually I'd come crashing back down. I stared at Maggie uncertainly, taking my cues from her on how to respond. She wasn't as tricky to handle when she was medicated, but sometimes I thought I knew her better manic. Her inconsistency was less complicated than her regular adult logic. And when she was, supposedly, fine it was harder for me to detect the subtle differences in her lies and truths.  
  
"I re-packed the suitcases for you," she went on, filling the quiet. My charm bracelet was on the nightstand; she picked it up delicately, the chain draped against the backs of her fingers as she held it out to me. The tiny skeleton key swung freely at the very bottom, offering me a new life. "I found this on the floor. I wasn't sure where it came from."  
  
"It's- it's mine." I'd packed the bracelet the night before, not trusting myself just yet to wear it permanently. Cautious as I was about some things, accessories wasn't one of them. I wasn't used to any kind of jewelry other than the flimsy homemade friendship bands girls at school passed around about as quick as it took the colored strings to come unraveled; or an occasional pair of earrings that were mostly worn to prevent the holes in my ears from closing up. "A Christmas present from Dad," I told her. She waited for me to take it, but I didn't. I didn't know why.  
  
"Oh. It's pretty." Maggie lowered her head and hand at the same time. She batted the silvery-blue butterfly around with her forefinger, and I wondered if some kind of sixth sense or built-in radar had told her that charm was from my stepmother. I tried to remember if spiders were a predator of butterflies or vice versa.  
  
"I don't want to go to Dad's house," I blurted suddenly. "Eric can go. I'll stay with you." It felt like severing body parts, this choosing between my brother and my mom; an either-or of which limb I could least afford to lose. How did you pick a thing like that? Without a leg you couldn't play kickball, without an arm you couldn't give good hugs. Something would always be missing, handicapping you in one way or another. But I didn't eeny-meeny-miny-mo the decision, hoping for the less painful outcome. I knew that Eric would be taken care of in our father's home, and I would wind up useless, the bossy big sister. It was with Maggie that I would have a purpose, a reason to go on being me. I'd gotten a sample the night before of how different I could become, and I didn't like it, resolved never to lose sight of myself that much again. A little nagging part of me kept on fearing that's who I actually was, though. Maybe I was just as much an actress as my mother. Maybe I only fooled myself into thinking I was a good person. I really wasn't sure.  
  
Maggie gazed at me through shiny tears, the brown in her eyes almost a dull black, like her inky pupils had overflowed. She looked so lethargic, so spent, I thought about grabbing her lithium and sprinkling it down the sink - anything to get rid of the deadness that choked out her vivacity, her intensity for life that I hated and loved, damned and craved. "You belong with your father," she said and cut me off when I tried to disagree. "Abby, please. He can give you a better life than I can. He can make you happy."  
  
"No, he can't." I shook my head vehemently. "He'll make Eric happy, but not me. I'm not like him. I don't belong there, I belong here with you. You said I'm yours, remember?"  
  
She winced and worked her hand loose from mine, pinching at the bridge of her nose as if she had a headache or her sinuses were bothering her. "I shouldn't have said that. You're his as much as mine-"  
  
"No!" I said.  
  
"Stop this."  
  
I shooed her away when she tried to pat my thigh again, moving on, pretending to be chipper. "I'm not leaving you," I vowed, putting some authority into it the way I did when her depression left me in charge. "If you make me go, I'll just come back." To prove my determination, I marched over to my suitcase and rooted through the clothes, rumpling everything, scattering most of it until the floor was cluttered with once-white bobby socks, too-big sweatshirts and threadbare cardigans, underwear, the one skirt I owned but never wore, and blue jeans sprawled out like unusual denim creatures that had been skinned and turned into rugs. It wasn't that different from the shambles my room was normally in, and it satisfied me to do it, even if it did seem desperate. I was desperate. I couldn't be recycled - Jimmy's secondhand kid he got because Maggie didn't want her anymore. Somebody had to love me, and more than anything I wanted it to be my mother. More than anything.  
  
"Oh, you are so damn stubborn!" she complained, though the relieved sigh that followed told another story. It ended in a smile that might as well have been a thank-you but waned little by little until she dissolved into tears. I'd had her for a brief shining moment then lost her. One step forward, two steps back. It baffled me.  
  
Maggie shielded her eyes with a trembling hand, her shoulders bouncing in a way that could have been mistaken for laughter. But Maggie's laughter was always open and loud, lilting around you, like a melody that got caught in the wind, not restrained and directed at the floor. Her spontaneous crying spurts weren't usually downplayed, either. No, I recognized this for what it was; genuine sorrow pouring out in an ashamed silence. This was how she cried when she didn't see me watching, when the pressures of life or kids or whatever it was that made so many people in the world unhappy got to be too much. I knew because it was how I cried into my pillow at night, choking back snotty, burning sobs until my throat and nose got congested, and cursing myself for every damned tear I let fall. Perhaps Maggie had passed it on to me, all that sadness, because she'd finally run out of room to contain it.  
  
"Mom?" I had a childish urge to add the long forgotten M and Y to that word, but they stuck to my teeth, obstinate as saltwater taffy. I shifted my weight from one bare foot to the other, assessing the situation and feeling helpless to stop it. I knew what to do for fake tears, not real ones.  
  
"Presents," Maggie whispered, balling her fist with my bracelet inside, her thin voice cracking, "I didn't buy any presents."  
  
I should have expected as much, but it still shocked me. I'd told Eric she wouldn't forget our presents, and I must have fooled myself into believing it too. What did it take for me to stop hoping? To stop trusting? I didn't want to give up faith in Maggie, but every now and then I felt it being chiseled away, the all-knowing motherly idol being reduced to a chipped rock. That was fine for me; I'd outgrown needing an ideal mom or Christmas - but I wanted my brother to have both, or at least the illusion of both. Protecting him from our sometimes painful reality had become my mission, a comfort I'd been deprived of and was bent on exposing Eric to. I failed more often than not and kept on trying anyway. Maggie had gotten it right; I was damn stubborn.  
  
"Here." I hastily stacked Eric's presents from biggest to smallest, a wrapping paper pyramid of Santas and stripes and Nativity scenes. Maggie didn't look up until I put them on the bed and a hardcover Choose Your Own Adventure book slid off the pile, into her lap. She wiped her cheeks, but a wayward tear pearled on her chin and dove straight for the swaddled little baby Jesus, drowning him in his paper manger. I watched as that tear absorbed into the wrapping, marring the smooth, holy surface, though probably not harming the tough binding underneath that was designed especially for whatever abuse rascally boys could dish out. It took all my self-control not to snatch the gift back so I could dab it dry.  
  
"What are these?" she asked, stuffy-nosed.  
  
"Things I bought for Eric." I said it fast before I could change my mind. "I earned the money on my own. Fair and square, nothing bad. I didn't know when you'd be back, so I thought, well-- just incase, y'know? So anyway, take them. You give them to him."  
  
Maggie inhaled deeply, but it was broken into short pockets of air, like she couldn't take it all in at once, like she was a chugging engine not quite ready to start. "Oh, no, sweetie. You deserve to give them to him more than I do. It wouldn't be right." She held the book out to me, and God, how I wanted to take it! See, Eric, see what I got you? Don't let Mom get off scot-free. But I stared at Mary and Joseph and smudged baby Jesus, serene and haloed by divine light, and I could not do it.  
  
"He'll be happier if he thinks they're from you," I said, my hands clasped behind me rather than in front as they usually were. "I don't want him to think you forgot about him or somethin'."  
  
She looked wounded for a second, and I bit down sharply on my tongue, warning myself to choose better words. Saying stuff like that would discourage her, and that was a sure-fire way to get her off the medicine again. "I know you wouldn't forget about him, Mom. But he's little. He doesn't understand," I tried.  
  
"No, I'd never forget him," she agreed, more to herself than me. Her eyes went glassy then, lost in some far away place, seeing things that were invisible to me. I waited, not knowing what for but seeking it anyhow. I seemed to lose my nerve after a minute, though, and decided to get dressed. Maggie caught the front of my shirt before I went anywhere, pulled me to her and plunked me down on her lap. I thought about Andy. "Or you," she said.  
  
"Yeah. I know."  
  
"Do you?" She searched my face for the answer; I kept it blank, unreadable. I didn't trust my voice or my eyes to lie for me, so I nuzzled my head against her shoulder where I wouldn't have to meet her discerning gaze. Maggie took another funny sounding breath and picked up a few lank strands of my hair like she might find the reassurance she needed knotted in there somewhere with the tangles I hadn't combed out after my shower.  
  
"What would I do without my angel girl?"  
  
It wasn't a question. She said that to me a lot, and occasionally I'd make a clever retort, but now I leaned into her and wished I was very small instead of stuck at the in-between stage where I was really too big for this type of cuddling yet young enough to want it. My mother easily regressed to when I was a four-year-old, though. She rocked me, patted my hip in a steady rhythm. Someday, I promised myself, if I had a daughter, I was going to hold her just like this.  
  
"How should we celebrate Christmas? Any ideas? We'll do whatever you want," Maggie told me. She still had my charm bracelet, and I finally took it from her, palming it as skillfully as a magician performing sleight of hand. "I'll rob a bank if I have to."  
  
I grinned and shifted in her embrace so that I could look up at her. "That sounds fun. Let's do that."  
  
"You're rotten," she teased, scolding me with a kiss.  
  
"Rotten to the core," I agreed.  
  
We smiled at each other, sort of lopsided and awkwardly, the smiles of two people getting used to one another again. I had just about all I needed for Christmas. 


	14. Bells Will Be Ringing

Author's Note, 5-17-03: Wow, I finally finished chapter 14. Go me. Am I boring you guys? If so, lemme know and I'll wrap it up. I'm dedicating this chapter to my brand new niece, Abbigail Sierra (that's right. I've got my own Abby now :). And special thanks to my Southern Technical Consultant (and fellow Sybil fan), Dorothy.  
  
Chapter 14  
  
BELLS WILL BE RINGING  
  
*  
  
Watching Eric being rolled away in his wheelchair was a hard thing to do. He kept leaning over as far as he could, stretching his neck out to see around Bridget, who steered while Jimmy walked mechanically alongside them with Eric's crutches in one hand, suitcase in the other. I expected Maggie to cry, but she didn't. I thought my heart might stop beating, but it didn't. I hoped Eric might change his mind right at the last second, right as he was being wheeled out of view, and demand that Bridget turn in the opposite direction. We would have a movie-perfect ending - the family reunited on Christmas day. Maybe Jimmy would even feel differently about us. I sugarcoated the truth with a bunch more sappy wishes, none of which materialized, and forgot to wave goodbye as my brother took a final look back.  
  
Maggie had stuck to her word. There was no arguing. No big scene. She was civil to my father, he had pretended to be glad to see her. Everyone seemed to be in a daze, caught in the middle of an alien experience where we were all together and nobody cursed or cried or acted smug because one of "the kids" liked them better. Even Bridget must have sensed it. She'd snuck a few encouraging winks and grins at me but remained strangely quiet as my parents conversed in stiff uneasy tones. I wanted to shake her and tell her to laugh or jabber on about some nutty thing she had done to pass the time in boringsville Ohio.  
  
"Why aren't you coming, Abby?" Eric had asked repeatedly, holding onto the sleeve of my sweater and keeping his voice low so the adults wouldn't hear. When I'd brushed his hand away to keep him from exposing the pink streaks that decorated my arm, he looked like he didn't recognize me anymore.  
  
Why aren't you staying? was the only reply I could think of, but I'd just bunched my shoulders up in a half-hearted shrug instead. He's little, he doesn't understand, I told myself, the same reasoning I'd offered to our mother earlier that day.  
  
Maggie's arm curved around my back, her fingers holding onto the scruff of my neck the way a person does when they pick up a cat. She probably could have lifted me right off the ground with that iron grip. It was reassuring to feel the strength there in her hand, even though I knew what it could be used for. She reminded me of a loaded gun that injured and protected, depending on where it was pointed. I huddled against her and slipped my arm around her trim waist, getting closer to her rigid body that told of something dangerous and steely layered beneath all that creamy, baby-smooth skin. I tried to harden myself up inside too.  
  
"Let's go home."  
  
There was a lengthy pause before Maggie responded. I peered up into her face anxiously. It was empty until she caught me looking and flashed a smile, showing too many teeth. She wasn't really that happy. "Don't frown so." She put a fingertip to her cheek and twisted her wrist from side to side like she was a dimpled Shirley Temple, using charm to get a laugh. "Didn't your mother ever tell you your face could stick that way?"  
  
I managed an artificial grin of my own to please her, but I wasn't ready to act silly. I might not be for a long, long time. Being silly wouldn't feel the same if Eric wasn't around to join in. "Let's go," I requested again, getting antsier the longer we stood in the hospital corridor, passed by doctors and nurses who paid no more heed to us than if we were a couple of saintly statues that had graced the hall for years. It didn't feel like a safe environment anymore. Maybe I expected Dr. Blake or Maxine to pop up suddenly and steal me from Maggie's grasp. Maybe I was afraid to be there when Bridget returned without my brother. For a moment, unreasonable as it was, I hated her for helping to take him away, hated Scott for urging me to telephone Jimmy. And most of all, I hated myself for going along with it. I never did anything right. Ever. Behind Maggie's back I made a fist and sunk my fingernails deep into my palm, smile still fixed neatly in place. Oh yes, I could wear masks with the best of them.  
  
*  
  
The phone was ringing off the hook when we got home. Maggie fooled around with the keys, making a racket as she tried to wrestle them out of the lock. "Slow down, girl," she called as I pushed past, nearly knocking her over, and banged my knee against the table in a mad dash to intercept the call before the other person on the line gave up.  
  
"Hello?" I held my knee, panting a little. My mother just shook her head and unbuttoned her coat, flapping each arm until the sleeves slid off.  
  
"I doubt it's Ed McMahon," she said.  
  
I shushed her with a dismissive wave of my hand.  
  
"Hello. Is this Abby?"  
  
Immediately I recognized the feminine voice with it's faint but unmistakable southern drawl that lingered despite decades of separation from a girlhood home deep in the heart of Georgia. It was a unique sound that stuck out like a sore thumb in an otherwise "nothin' but Yankee" family. Eric and I would giggle and try to imitate certain words - "hanker" and "reckon" - in that same dancing tone that rose and fell as lightly as a feather on the wind, until Grandma Corrie Jo laughed at what atrocious accents her Yankee grandchildren had and told us to stop making fun of hers. But I never considered it making fun. I loved the way she said everything, pretty as music.  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
Maggie froze in the middle of hanging her coat in the closet; her head shot up so quickly it caused her hair to fan about her shoulders. She watched me suspiciously, pointed and mouthed, "Ma'am?"  
  
"So polite! Now I know I'm speaking with my favorite grandchild."  
  
Gran-chy-ld. I grinned into the phone, ignoring Maggie's frantic hand charades. "Yes, ma'am. How are you?" I dodged my mother when she tried to get her ear in to listen.  
  
"Oh, fair ta middlin'. I'd be even better if my daughter and grandbabies were here to celebrate Christmas with me." Grandma's whispery sigh wasn't accusing, but I knew she meant what she said. Every year she invited us to spend the holidays in the cozy two-bedroom house she had lived in for about as long as I could remember. Maggie only accepted a handful of times, claiming it was too far of a drive. What she really wanted was an excuse not to see her stepfather, the man Corrie Jo had married before I was even born and only a short while after her first husband, Maggie's real dad, had died from a heart attack. Maggie grew up a daddy's girl and resented what she viewed as the disloyalty her mother showed by remarrying so quickly. I loved Grandad Wilbur though. He liked to sneak me and Eric candy when Maggie wasn't looking, sometimes literally spoiling our supper. He was a prankster too, constantly keeping you on your toes when you were around him, and his favorite target was Grandma Corrie Jo because she had a high- pitched scream that could "peel paint off the walls" and startled everyone else as well. Between Grandad's mischief, Grandma's sweetness, and the huge gourmet meals they both loved to prepare, it was always a pleasant visit at their house. Almost.  
  
Then there were the times Maggie would get in a mood to argue and dredge up childhood memories that seemed to me nothing more than mixed-up fairy tales that put Grandma in the role of the evil witch. Maggie was the enslaved, unloved princess who finally escaped only to be trapped again when her knight in shining armor knocked her up. Grandpa Newman - now a ghost existing in faded pictures and an unknown haunted corner of Grandma's eyes - couldn't accept that his baby girl was pregnant out of wedlock. Maggie swore it was Corrie Jo's old school beliefs that poisoned the man against her, brought on the fight that estranged them and killed Grandpa Newman before he learned his granddaughter wouldn't be born a bastard, but I knew differently. When the storm had passed, or at least after Maggie was out of the room, Grandma Corrie Jo would pull me aside and tell me it had never mattered to her whether I came into this world a Wyczenski or a Newman, she would have loved me just the same. Still, I was full of questions. What would have happened if my parents hadn't married before my birth? Did Maggie place part of the blame for Grandpa Newman's death on me? Would he be alive now if I hadn't stirred up trouble? Had I killed him? I wondered.  
  
I wanted to ask, but the hurt that mapped its way along the tiny crow's- feet etched on Grandma Corrie Jo's face silenced me. She was young for a grandmother; nary a gray strand sabotaging her naturally red hair and still in possession of all her own teeth, she would brag while skipping or doing some other girlish thing that made me wish I had known her when she was even more youthful and wild, rollicking around the neighborhood with an army of cousins, her copper colored penny loafers and white knee socks stained rusty-red by those Georgia clay back roads. But a row with Maggie could wear even the most spirited down, and Corrie Jo was no exception. "Just like my mama," she would sigh when Maggie disrupted family gatherings to bicker with Aunt Shelia or tell me and Eric to get our asses in the car because we were leaving. I pitied my grandma then. "Just like my mama."  
  
"Is everything all right, darlin'?" Grandma Corrie Jo sounded concerned. I nodded, as if she could see me through the holes in the mouthpiece of the phone.  
  
"Uh-huh. I'm sorry we didn't make it this year. We really wanted to." I lowered my head and voice a little. "I miss you. And Grandad."  
  
"We miss you somethin' fierce too, pun'kin."  
  
"Pum-p-kin," Maggie would have corrected. I liked it better Grandma's way.  
  
"Tell her she should hitch a ride if Maggie won't bring her," Grandad Wilbur hollered in the background.  
  
"I will do no such thing!" Grandma Corrie Jo scolded, her accent thickening as she half shouted and nearly broke my eardrum. "Don't you dare listen to that man," she said to me. "He's crazier'n a bedbug. Young ladies have no business hitchhikin'. Fine way to end up dead in a ditch. When I was your age I knew a girl - Vanessa Maines. We called her Nessie May; and, Lord, she was a pretty thing. All those springy yellow curls... Well, one afternoon Nessie May up and decides to thumb a ride into town to get herself a soda pop. Few days later Forrest Sutton went down fishin' in the river and found a cluster of them beautiful ringlets all scattered in the grass. Poor Mrs. Maines never saw her child again. Never was right after that."  
  
I heard Grandad Wilbur roar with laughter, and I pressed my lips together to trap my own giggles. Grandma Corrie Jo always knew of someone that something tragic had happened to, especially naughty children who let their curiosity get the better of them. I used to scoot in beside her in the big easy chair at her house, wedging myself securely between her hip and the armrest, my head propped against her talcum-powdered, dish soap-scented arm, and beg to hear every gruesome detail of what sorts of things befell bad girls and boys that did not obey their parents. I had a morbid fascination, she'd say. Then a story would follow containing some moral at the end as a warning of what could happen to children with morbid fascinations. My favorites were the misbehaving kids who died a gory death, the grief-stricken parents left behind to wonder where they had gone wrong.  
  
Afterwards I'd lie awake on the squeaky stiff mattress in Grandma's spare bedroom and imagine I was one of those kids. I'd be the girl that took the forbidden shortcut through the woods and got chopped all to pieces by a raving lunatic, or went skinny-dipping with a boy only to drown in the powerful undertow I'd swam too close to. I usually nodded off right before the axe split my skull, before my hands gave a few last thrashes as I inhaled green slimy stuff and river sludge into my searing lungs. I never got to finish my fantasies so I could find out how Maggie reacted to the news of my demise. Did she throw herself on top my coffin, wailing like a banshee, same as the mother in one of Grandma's juicier parables did at the funeral for a daughter that had been kidnapped, "ruined", and suffocated with a garbage bag by a drifter she was warned to avoid? Did my classmates get a day out of school to attend my burial? Did they brag later on because they had known the dead girl? Would me dying soften everybody's hearts and maybe fix my family? I never did make it that far, even in my dreams.  
  
"Don't worry, Grandma." I noticed Maggie's color drain when I said it. She paced nervously. "I'm smarter than Nessie May. I only hitchhike when I'm armed."  
  
"Shame on you." Corrie Jo chuckled. "You and Wilbur are two peas in a pod. Person tries to talk serious and y'all crack jokes. Wouldn't be near as funny if you had known Nessie May."  
  
"No, I reckon not."  
  
"Oh, dear God," Maggie groaned, her eyes pointed heavenward like she was pleading for a lightning rod to tear through the ceiling and strike her dead. She loathed hearing Grandma's expressions come out of my mouth. Hillbilly talk, Mom called it. But more than once I'd caught her using the same "awful slang" she ragged on Aunt Shelia for not banishing from her vocabulary. What was there to be ashamed of? Shelia wanted to know. My pretty aunt was just as outspoken and fiery tempered as her little sister, and she never tolerated Maggie's critiquing of their mother. In fact, most of their arguments were about Grandma. Maggie firmly believed Shelia was Corrie Jo's favorite daughter, and I didn't doubt it. Shelia had become Grandma's talisman, her gypsy, dubbed so because she had a blanket of silky tar-black hair and eyes the shade of midnight, unlike anyone else in our family. "An ol' gypsy woman conjured that girl up with shadows, black onyx and raven feathers," Grandma claimed. "Sent her to bewitch us all."  
  
"Maggie," she'd add, "is the only one immune to the spell."  
  
It was true. Even with Aunt Shelia cloaked in a mysterious darkness, my mother had turned into the black sheep of the family. It hadn't always been that way, Shelia told me. Maggie used to get along with everyone, used to have them all wrapped around her pinkie finger. No one would have dreamed she was sick. She'd been the most popular girl in school, a cheerleader with pom-poms and everything. In other words, the antithesis of me. Once in a while I couldn't help but marvel at what God must have been thinking when he pieced together my family like one great big demented jigsaw puzzle.  
  
Grandma Corrie Jo and I chatted a few minutes more, killing time till there was nothing else to do but yield the conversation to Maggie and hope for the best.  
  
"Well, dear heart..." Hem, haw. The phone itself seemed to be holding its breath with us. I heard just about every noise there was to hear between Grandma's house and mine. Somewhere close by, Grandad cleared his throat as if he were speeding things along. Grandma took the hint. "Is she there?"  
  
My grandmother held strong opinions about ladies that used coarse language. She wouldn't even say "ass" when it referred to the animal. For every filthy curse word, there was a far less profane version that could substitute it, she insisted. Darn, not damn. Shoot, not shit. Have relations, not sex. The "she" replacing my mother's name sounded an awful lot like Grandma's Christianized swearing. Hell, I didn't blame her. The taste of "Maggie" was often harsh and bittersweet in my mouth, too.  
  
"Yeah..." I watched Maggie fidget as I glanced her way. She smoothed her hair, fiddled with her birthstone ring, jiggled her legs like she had to pee. I decided nervousness was a good sign. If she were still nursing a grudge towards Corrie Jo because of their most recent apocalyptic battle, I never would have gotten past my overly courteous greeting. "She's here. Hold on." I unwound the spirally phone cord from my arm and waved the receiver at Maggie, but she backed away like I'd offered her a jar full of spiders.  
  
"Who is it?" she blurted unconvincingly. She knew.  
  
"It's your mother," I said, enjoying the feel of that on my tongue. It was nice to know Maggie had been my age once, that she'd had parents to answer to. She didn't have so much over on me. I jabbed the phone at her again, taunting just the tiniest bit. "You have to talk to her. It's Christmas." I spoke softly, my hand cupped around the mouthpiece, soundproofing it.  
  
Hesitant, Maggie reached for the phone and nearly dropped it before she got it to her ear. We stared at each other with such intensity I thought we might start communicating telepathically. Be good, I beseeched her. Don't screw this up.  
  
If she got the message, there was no reply.  
  
Her voice didn't match her expression when she turned away from me and said, "Mama! What a surprise!" 


	15. Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

Chapter 15  
  
DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL  
  
*  
  
"Which looks better?" Maggie draped a lacey-collared shirt with billowy ruffled sleeves against her chest, modeling the first choice for me, then exchanged it for a roomy blazer that had shoulder pads so thick it looked like she was gearing up for a football game. A frilly tablecloth or a quarterback? Sometimes I sincerely did not understand fashion.  
  
I weighed my decisions as I sloped my shoulders, looping the straps to one of Maggie's bras over each arm and fastening the front-clasp. Wearing it outside my sweater gave me the extra padding I needed to fill it - well, almost - I noted with satisfaction. "Neither," I finally admitted, giving the bra cups a pat so they sunk in against the empty space rather than poke out. Sitting perfectly erect on Maggie's bed, I thrust my bosom forward and surveyed my reflection in the mirror across from me. "You should've given me bigger boobs for Christmas," I told Maggie when she paused to watch and snigger.  
  
"I wouldn't mind having those myself," she said, tossing the rejected clothes aside and vocalizing her frustration with a cross between a sigh and a shrill growl. She let her posture sag and gazed at the mound of skirts and slacks and other items either she or I had deemed not good enough. Her hair fluffed around her face like a whirlwind had blown through, taking her sense of style with it. "Why didn't you tell me sooner that my clothing was this... shitty?"  
  
"You don't have to dress up. It's Grandma. She'll be wearing a flower print blouse and an A-line skirt." Grandma Corrie Jo was very predictable that way. I don't think she'd ever slouched around in a pair of pants a day in her life, and her entire wardrobe seemed to consist of nothing but the same exact style of blouses and skirts, just in alternating colors. I'd bet Eric one time that if we peeked in Grandma's closet we'd find row after row of identical outfits. Like Wilma Flintstone's endless supply of white dresses and signature strand of pearls. Our snooping was interrupted when Grandad, napping in the antique four-poster bed, choked on a grizzly bear snore and sent us high-tailing it out of the room.  
  
Thoughtful for a moment, I situated the loose straps that kept drooping off my shoulders and added, "And flats. She always wears flats."  
  
"Why do you think I don't own a single pair?"  
  
"Because you're too short for them," I said matter-of-factly. "They make your legs look stumpy." I pretended not to see the indignant, dagger-eyed glare Maggie aimed at me, though I had a perfect view of it parroted in the mirror. She harrumphed, waded up a very nunly gray turtleneck and pitched it right at my head. I ducked, rounded my shoulders, caught the incoming missile to the back. "Easy there, Stump."  
  
"A lot of help you are!" Maggie cried, forever the drama queen. But there was a smile hiding behind that gripe, assuring me that my dry humor hadn't actually rattled her internal hornets nest. All depression and conniption fits aside, my mother possessed a decent, if somewhat erratic, sense of humor. She had taught me to weep, but she had also taught me to laugh.  
  
I waited till she resumed picking over clothes, then I gave up on silently ridiculing my image and stretched on my stomach across the bed, propped on both elbows, watching Maggie stress about the right pumps to blend with her brown eyes and sheer, cocoa-tinted stockings. As if footwear set the tone for the entire ensemble, and anything less than the perfect shade would create utter chaos. How she ever got through dressing herself in the morning was beyond me. "Good thing you've got until New Year's to 'throw something together,'" I commented, the words coming out a mumble because I was supporting my chin with the heels of my palms, fingers curled in against my lips. That's how Maggie'd put it when she wrangled me in as a judge for her fashion show: she'd throw something together. That was over an hour and thirty-seven minutes ago. Make that thirty-eight. I might've skipped a minute during her tirade about not owning any slips the length she needed to go with her favorite skirt.  
  
"What?" She glanced at me, distracted.  
  
"I said, 'D'you think Aunt Shelia will notice that huge run up the back of your pantyhose?'"  
  
Horrified, Maggie went slack-jawed, her mouth gaping, eyes enormous, and twisted from side to side, contorting to see the nonexistent snag. "Oh my God, where? They didn't have one when I got them out of the drawer. How long has it been there? I knew I shouldn't have bought the cheap brand," she howled, then stomped her foot like she was murdering a cockroach. "Damn it!" Her head practically turned a full circle, still hunting for the tragic flaw.  
  
"Oh..." I tilted sideways, squinting like I needed glasses to improve my vision, and examined the hose more closely. I'm not sure what had gotten hold of me - Grandma Corrie Jo would grin and call it deviltry - but I felt a gleam of wicked pleasure as a result of fooling my mother. She didn't know just how sly I could be, how cunning. I bet I could even slip away in the middle of the night without waking a soul. Of course I'd never do it. But I had the skill. "Never mind." Deliberate pause. "It must've been a shadow."  
  
If tones and looks had the power to kill, I would have died twice on the spot.  
  
"Abigail."  
  
I smiled sweetly and batted my eyelashes. "Margaret."  
  
"Ornery brat," she said, supposedly joking, and reached over to conk me on the head like I was one of those tricky plastic alligators you bash with a club, on the game strip at carnivals. I grimaced and rubbed my scalp, though it didn't really hurt. At least that's what I told myself. I thought about using the jagged edge of a broken fingernail I hadn't yet clipped, to put an actual snag in her nylons, then decided against it. That was pushing the limits. A rap to the head was warning enough. It said, Watch yourself, Abby. She's not Corrie Jo and you are not Maggie.  
  
"I still have a headache, you know." Chastised or not, I wanted to point that out to her. Maybe get some sympathy while I was at it. She should pity me, be sorry for what she'd done. Not just for making the steadfast throbbing in my skull jump up about five notches, but everything. She should be grateful she still had me for a daughter, that I hadn't followed through the million or so times I'd yearned to runaway. That I didn't treat her with the same disrespect she flung at her mother. That I wasn't pregnant or on drugs. And I could have been so easily. It was common knowledge at school which kids were the potheads, which wanted to do It with you. Chances came and passed me by. One, I knew Maggie would slaughter me for those things. Two, I had to remain stable for her. Being asked to set the table for dinner or to help braid Maggie's hair or wash dishes while she dried or hear the new greeting she planned to use when she sold cosmetics door-to-door: those were the moments that I thought of when I was tempted to misbehave the way my friends did. Moments like now when my opinion mattered to her and I got to spend time with her, watching how she moved, touching her belongings, exchanging ideas and smiles... being her daughter. It's what kept me good. And she didn't even comprehend it.  
  
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Like the thump on my head had knocked loose a shitload of bitterness I'd been doing my best to suppress all day.  
  
"It's called a hangover, precious." Maggie lifted her eyebrows as if to say, You made your bed, now lie in it. "If certain little girls are going to get drunk, they shouldn't whine about the ramifications."  
  
I jammed the uneven fingernail in my mouth and chewed till a piece came off between my teeth and created a sharper angle than I'd had before. Why couldn't she be a normal mom who came right out and said what I'd done wrong and give me a really long lecture so I'd never doing it again? Why couldn't she fish a bottle of aspirin from her purse and tell me it was all right if I got under the covers of her bed to sleep awhile? Why couldn't she baby me for once? Why couldn't she? Disgusted, I spat out the nail fragment and stabbed the pointy remainder into my tongue, battling back a ton of hateful remarks. Watch yourself, Abby.  
  
"Stop biting your nails," Maggie scolded, her nose wrinkling up at my bad manners. "Nasty, nasty habit." She wiggled her fingers in front of my face, showing off a self-manicured hand with flashy red polish. Movie star quality. The red wasn't even chipped after days of wear.  
  
I stabbed harder. Watch yourself.  
  
"I never bite mine."  
  
"If you're so freaking perfect, pick an outfit by yourself then."  
  
My finger wasn't in my mouth anymore, so it had to be me that said it. I got to my knees on the bouncy surface of the bed and sat against my heels, briefly studying Maggie's astonished expression. It urged me on. "You're just gonna mess things up anyway. You'll go meet Grandma and Aunt Shelia for dinner on New Year's, probably make a bunch of dumb resolutions to never fight with 'em again and to keep in touch more often. But you won't. You'll get pissed about something you remembered one of them saying, like, 400 years ago. Something stupid that wasn't even about you and nobody else even remembers. Then you won't speak to either of 'em for months, and I won't get to see them, Eric won't get to see them. You think you're hurting them, but you're really hurting us. We love Grandma and Grandad and Aunt Shelia. They're good to us." I looked at her accusingly, not adding what I could've. Not saying, Unlike you. "They'd be good to you too if you let 'em. But you're just so... so..." I'd worked myself up to the verge of tears, and I panted as I searched for the right word. "Selfish!"  
  
I figured I'd get slapped again, but I didn't care. I drove my own palm into the bedspread - the place where she slept, where she'd probably conspired with Beau to fool her dumb kids and steal away together - inviting her to take a swing at me. It couldn't hurt more than what I was already feeling. Not even hangers felt that bad. "You're selfish!" I echoed, loud and furious, pointing at my mother so there would be no mistaking where all this anger had originated. I was acting exactly like her, and that only ticked me off more.  
  
"I'm sick of you telling me not to do stuff, then turning right around and doing it yourself. Don't drink, Abby. Don't be a tramp. Don't disrespect your mother. Blah, blah, blah. How come you don't have to follow those rules? It's not fair. Even when I listen you don't notice. Every morning before school you tell me to be good, but you never ask me about it when I get home. You don't even know the teacher said I'm the best speller in the class or that I got extra credit for turning in a project early. Do you know I'm never in detention? No. You'd only notice if I got suspended for smoking in the bathroom." I imitated her and took a puff on an imaginary cigarette, theatrically blowing a stream of air through my lips. "Don't smoke, Abby. It's bad for your health," I said affectedly.  
  
"Maybe YOU'RE what's bad for my health, Mom," I raged, my voice getting hoarse from so much use. I had never in my life spoken to her this long without her talking over me or telling me to shut my mouth. A dam had broken somewhere inside and the water gushed out too fast to be halted. I really did feel drained when I pushed off the bed, standing on weak legs, a hollow pain creeping around in my belly, and the backs of my eyes aching like they were being squeezed in a vise. They threatened to pop if I wiped the moisture from them, so I left it there and waited. Maggie looked like a robot whose batteries had died, rendering her immobile. Emotionless. Speechless. It reminded me of that Freaky Friday movie where the mom and daughter switched bodies, Disney-style wackiness ensued, and no one knew which end was up. Now it was me in Maggie's place, pitching a hysterical fit, while she was in my shoes, the stoic bystander who didn't make any sudden movements. Freaky Christmas.  
  
After what seemed like eons of silence, I gave up hoping for a reply and padded towards the door. My mother followed me with her eyes, resembling a half-dressed store mannequin in just her bra, nylons and black knee-length skirt. "I'll be in my room," I said, crossing the hall and slamming my bedroom door behind me. The apartment shuddered. My head pleaded for mercy.  
  
*  
  
Tap, tap, tap.  
  
Seated cross-legged on my bed, I perked up and listened to the knock. There was a short pause before it came again. Tap, tap, tap. Steady, regular. It might seem silly, but I'd learned to decipher some of the ways a person knocked. People had different styles for different attitudes. Urgency and impatience were accompanied by a series of fast, woodpecker knuckle-raps, like a frantic, pulsating heartbeat; happiness usually called for drumming out a cheerful tune: "Shave and a haircut, 2 bits"; anger hurled itself against the door, pounding, demanding entrance; and then you had your ordinary, run-of-the-mill knocking that could mean any number of things. The latter is what I was hearing now. I stared at the door like it might give me more of a hint if I waited, but it must not have known what to expect from Maggie any more than I did.  
  
I fingered the white cashmere sweater that was spread across my lap. The same one I'd worn nearly a week ago, the day my mother dropped me and Eric as carelessly as she abandoned clothing that fell to the floor. It bothered Eric to see me wearing something of hers, so I'd stowed it inside my pillowcase, where I could hold onto it at night, twisting the soft fabric between my fingers the way a child would fondle a beloved security blanket. That had lost most of its comfort, though, after a particularly vivid nightmare in which the sweater became a living, breathing creature and I - reduced to the size of an ant; an insignificant nothing - hid under my pillow, only to be squashed flat by the white monster. Now it lay limp and harmless against my thighs, flowing over my kneecaps, an empty shell of the beast in my dream. I clutched the shoulders and tried to shake out wrinkles like Maggie did, snapping the garment in the air like a flag bursting open on a windy day, dislodging any traces of the specter it had been. I folded the sweater and placed it on the end of my bed.  
  
"Come in," I said.  
  
The door creaked. Maggie glanced around apprehensively before stepping into my room. Guiltily, I recognized it as the same look Eric and I usually wore in the aftermath of her screaming fits. Spying a piece of fuzz on my sock, I became engrossed in picking it off. "What is it?" I demanded, miffed that she kept rubbing in how alike we were, even if she wasn't doing it intentionally.  
  
"I..." Maggie hesitated, cleared her throat. Was she going to apologize? I lost interest in the fuzz and looked up at her. "Do you still have a headache?"  
  
Figures. She'd probably come to play taps next to my ear, with a pot and spoon serving as her makeshift drum. "It's called a hangover, cupcake," I sassed, and mimed the way she arched her eyebrows at me during our previous topic of headaches versus hangovers.  
  
And you know what she had the nerve to do? She laughed. Just tossed her head back and chortled as if I'd told the cleverest joke she'd ever heard. I glowered at her, my skin simmering and tinged bright pink. "Stop it!" I ordered, getting worked up all over again. A whole hour had passed since my last outburst, but my temper hadn't been given sufficient time to cool. "Why can't you ever act normal? You're so damn--"  
  
Humor gone, Maggie cut short my rant by sticking her palm in front of my face, revealing two tiny pills. Aspirin. Her other hand brought forward a glass of water. I glanced back and forth so many times, one would think I'd never seen aspirin or water in my life. "Selfish," she finished for me. "I know. You're right. And I'm sorry. For leaving. For laughing. Everything. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." She thrust the medicine closer. "Here. A peace offering. You don't have to forgive me right away; I'll understand. Just don't hate me, either."  
  
"I don't hate you," I muttered, tentatively pinching the tablets between my fingers. I popped both of them into my mouth and washed them down with a long swig of water, keeping an eye on Maggie the entire time.  
  
"Don't like me much, though, huh?" She said softly, reaching for the glass - half empty - when I was finished.  
  
I resumed fussing with my sock.  
  
"Okay..." Maggie sounded as though she were psyching herself up for a leap off the high dive. She swirled the leftover water around, sloshing it against the glass and nearly dribbling some on the floor. She straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin upwards. "Okay," she repeated, more confident, on firmer ground.  
  
I shrugged indifferently. "Okay," I answered. I wasn't sure how long we could go on avoiding what really need to be said and cramming all our emotions into that single word, but Maggie saved us both the trouble of any further nuances. She started to leave. Quickly, I stretched out my legs, swung my feet off the bed and planted them on the floor like I might be ready to pounce from that spot and block the doorway. What would I say? Did I want to yell again or cry and hug her? Or maybe just do a pratfall to bring back the laughter I'd extinguished? I couldn't decide. Whatever had come uncorked earlier, giving me the freedom to tell her exactly what I was thinking, was plugged up tight now. She had apologized. Lousily. But it was an apology, nonetheless. The ball had been lobbed into my court.  
  
"Wait. Here." I snatched her sweater from the end of my bed and offered it up like a swaddled baby, cradled in my palms. With or without actual presents, we were having a Christmas exchange, after all. "This is what you should wear to dinner with Grandma. I recommend jeans or dressy slacks" - I knew she'd never go for the jeans suggestion - "and your black boot-things. The ones with the fat heels. I'll help you curl your hair, and we can pull it back with the big banana clip. It'll be..." I chewed my bottom lip, trying to recall the term she used on occasion, when we would pass an especially stylish pants suit or dress while browsing some ritzy department store with sky-high prices we could never afford. Why pay an arm and a leg when an identical twin could be crafted at home using her trusty old Singer? Maggie would brag, shooting her nose straight in the air, high as it'd reach, as we passed uppity sales clerks. I saw the want in her eyes when she snorted at price tags for designer labels, though.  
  
"Tres chic," we said simultaneously. I allowed a smile to creep onto my lips; the corners of Maggie's mouth quivered and twitched, until she burst into a grin as well. And just like that, our troubles were behind us, retreating to the backs of our minds, unsorted, unresolved. Uncomplicated. It was a habit by now, and I didn't fight it. Where would it get me? We'd have enough tears and fighting waiting for us next time the cycle began.  
  
"I see you've inherited my superb fashion sense." Maggie plopped down beside me, jostling the mattress, making it sink in. Tiny as she was, she sure could flop that weight around. "Well... almost." When I cocked my head to one side, questioning, she directed my attention to the long-forgotten brassiere I still flaunted on the outside of my sweater. "You might want to rethink that look. It's-- how should I put this?" She tapped her chin with her index finger, thoughtful for about half a second. "Horrendously tacky."  
  
Pensive, I glanced at the loose bra sagging against my chest like a wilted flower. "Nuh-uh. I think it's pretty."  
  
She furrowed her brow and cupped a hand against my forehead, checking for a fever, feigning shock. "Mercy sakes, that headache's done damage to your brain." As she said this, she gently guided my head towards her lap, situated it against her thighs while I wiggled and squirmed my way into a comfortable position, and proceeded to massage my temples, applying pressure in slow, circular motions with her fingertips. Involuntarily, my eyelashes fluttered, then sewed themselves completely shut. A barely audible moan gurgled in my throat, thinned into a sigh before passing through my lips. Maggie churned out the tension in my skull as smoothly as butter.  
  
"How does pizza sound?" she asked after a while, her voice as drowsy as I had become.  
  
"Huh?" Lazily, I peeped up at her through one eye, not bothering to open the other.  
  
"Well, it's too late to cook a big meal," she expounded, "and we don't really have the fixings anyway. Since we don't eat pizza often, and it's just you and I..."  
  
"Pizza on Christmas?" I murmured, contemplating the novel idea. Eric would've liked that. A low, insistent rumbling in the pit of my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten in forever and cinched my answer. "Ok. Let's have that. It's not the kinda pie Bridget meant, but it'll do."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind." I batted the air with my palm, discouraging her curiosity. "You weren't there."  
  
My mother replied with silence. Worried that I had offended her with my last statement, I forced both eyes wide this time and prepared to explain. The story was immediately interrupted by a brisk knock at the front door, a Morse code kind of tapping that seemed uncertain, rushed into. Her hands poised like a pianist's above my face, Maggie ceased kneading the skin at the bridge of my nose. I turned my head and listened.  
  
"Who on earth could that be?"  
  
"I don't know." I rolled onto my side, nudging myself upright, hair spilling across my face. "Maybe Grandma Corrie Jo couldn't wait till New Year's." Feet on the floor, I rocked forward until I was standing and shook the wavy strands from in front of my eyes. "Want me to stall her while you spruce the place up?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous. She couldn't have made it here that fast." Maggie hadn't stood yet. She patted and plucked at her bangs, fringing them neatly across her forehead, then nervously swept the whole lot aside with unsatisfied fingers. "Could she?"  
  
"Not unless she's taken up hot-rodding."  
  
Sounding relieved, Maggie giggled at the absurdity of that and joined me as I moseyed into the hall. I decided not to rush ahead to answer this summons as I had with the phone. It was probably just Mary, the elderly and purely senile lady a few apartments over, making her rounds to wish everybody a happy holiday. She'd done the same thing on Thanksgiving, catching us in the middle of our feast, and invited herself in for a plate of turkey and cranberries. "Dig in!" Maggie had said, completely unfazed, shoveling in a forkful of stuffing while Eric snickered into his milk and I focused on the lake of creamed corn overflowing my mashed potatoes. The minute Mary wandered home, still gumming a mouthful of mush, we had lost our composure. Eric laughed till a frothy jet of white gunk shot out of his nostrils, Maggie's eyes watered as she shrieked that we were going to make her pee her pants if we didn't settle down.  
  
I was busy grinning at the memory when Maggie tapped me on the shoulder. "Bra," she said.  
  
My features twisted in confusion.  
  
"Unless you want whoever's on the other side of the door to think we've got something weird going on in here..." She wagged her finger at me, indicating my racy fashion statement.  
  
Cheeks flushed, I fumbled with the clasp and worked myself out of the bra, balling it up and passing it off to Maggie. "Hey," she protested, concealing it behind her back just as I opened the door and stared at the pair who'd been waiting for an answer.  
  
"I'm home," Eric announced before my brain had even processed whose face I was seeing. Jimmy stood behind him, his hands on Eric's shoulders, helping him stay balanced on the two crutches protruding from his armpits. My father nodded hello to Maggie, but seemed to find the most solace in my eyes. He held my gaze for a moment, his smile wan, then looked away and, to no one in particular, said, "Somebody was missing his mom and big sister."  
  
My brother's grin stretched so far up, his eyes squinted as he hobbled across the threshold, joining my and Maggie's side of the apartment. "I knew you couldn't bear to celebrate without me," he teased, probably not even guessing how right he was.  
  
Astonished, Maggie and I just at looked them, the other half of our used-to- be family. Jimmy fidgeted, shoved his hands in his pockets, and took them out again when he spotted Eric's suitcase on the floor at his feet. Jumping at the distraction, he grabbed the handle and awkwardly leaned inside the doorway, resting the suitcase against the wall to his left. I thought he was going to jerk back into the hall, like stepping fully inside would morph him into a pillar of salt, but he lingered in position long enough to tousle Eric's curls. My brother didn't turn around; he couldn't because Maggie had him by the face, sprinkling him with kisses. Then my father, his lanky frame towering high above mine, gathered me into his arms and squeezed me too tightly. I could hear his heart pounding as my ear pressed against his chest. "Goodbye," I whispered, my voice getting lost in the folds of his coat.  
  
" 'sides, Dad don't have an Atari," Eric was saying when I emerged from Jimmy's embrace.  
  
"Doesn't," Maggie corrected.  
  
"Nope, he don't. So I wouldn't be able to play the game you got me."  
  
At the mention of the gift I'd been so proud of finding for Eric - though he believed whole-heartedly it came from Maggie - I turned, just to catch a glimpse of the happiness on his face when he mentioned it.  
  
"Can I play it now?" Eric said, not waiting for our mother's reply. "Hey, Dad, you wanna play with me?"  
  
I was the only one who didn't show surprise or disappointment when the three of us looked towards an empty doorway. 


	16. Angels Greet With Anthems Sweet

Chapter 16  
  
ANGELS GREET WITH ANTHEMS SWEET  
  
*  
  
For three days straight, Maggie, Eric and I did nothing but play video games. The living room floor became our headquarters. We were marooned on an island of pillows and blankets we barely ventured away from, except for necessities such as bathroom breaks and refrigerator raids. I was almost sick of junk food, we ate so much of it. We consumed more Spaghetti O's and meatballs than I ever would have guessed was humanly possible. Eric's tongue showed signs of being stained a permanent reddish-orange due to licking the sauce out of each bowl. Zombie-eyed, we passed the joystick - which was sticky by now and smelled of tomato - methodically back and forth as if we were lost in a galaxy-defending trance. After so long, my eyes no longer wanted to focus on images from the real world. It was a shock to glance away from the television screen and not find myself in an ambience of fluorescent lines and dots or surrounded by jagged, block-shaped people. My hand automatically gripped items as though they were joysticks that could be manipulated and jabbed at. I was in an Atari induced coma.  
  
"Die, you stupid..." Eric's thumb rapidly punched the red button protruding from the control's tip - like a finishing-touch cherry on a sundae - and he jerked his body sideways, dodging laser beams right along with his onscreen counterpart. "No! No!" His painted tongue darted to and fro behind slightly ajar lips, then poked out at one corner, writhing, striving to win. "Die," he commanded the enemy, whose Final Level rank made it the most dreadful of foes.  
  
"Shoot it," directed Maggie, our designated armchair video gamer. She pointed frantically at Eric's advancing opponent and coldcocked a nearby pillow, knocking it flat, leaving behind an imprint of four dainty knuckles. "Now, shoot it!"  
  
"Shut up!" Eric said absentmindedly. "You're gonna make me-"  
  
Disbelieving, we all three gaped at the confetti and fireworks explosion that splattered across the screen when Eric's battleship got clobbered. Cue the cartoonish music that was almost mocking in its gaiety and GAME OVER flashing in a bold, yellow font. Oh, good God in Heaven. Two and a half hours of nonstop intergalactic warfare had just gone down the tubes. Now I knew how Princess Leia must have felt when they nuked her home-planet. Damn you, Darth Vader.  
  
Eric added some shock value by grumbling "Aww, hell" and chucking the joystick at the game console, jarring loose its cartridge. A curtain of pitch blackness was drawn across the television screen like an unexpected eclipse. "See what you made me do?" my brother whined.  
  
"It wasn't my fault," Maggie said, defensive. "And stop swearing."  
  
"Was too. You wouldn't stop talking. You abstracted me."  
  
"Distracted. And I suppose I knocked the control out of your hands and practically busted the thing" - she stabbed her index finger in the direction of the now cockeyed Atari - "all to pieces too?"  
  
"Wouldn't be surprised," Eric returned saucily.  
  
There wasn't much seriousness in their bickering, but it was giving me major déjà vu. I decided to intervene before we had a repeat of the temper tantrum I'd thrown on Christmas day. Eric had not acted out in any way since his return home, though it was inevitable that he would. Like me, he had his subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) ways of paying Maggie back for the trials she put us through. I'd learned to use guilt and emotional punishment; Eric was almost strictly physical. The meanest instance would be the time he removed the caps from each of Maggie's acrylic paint tubes so every last one dried out. You do what you gotta do to express yourself, I guess.  
  
"Now, children," I raised my hands like a conductor signaling an orchestra, "let's not be petty. We can handle this in a mature fashion, can we not?" With those words, I gathered two pillows, one in each hand, and swung them outwards into the unsuspecting faces of my mom and brother. There was a soft thwack, an indignant "Hey!" I was the picture of innocence when the pillows dropped and Maggie and Eric turned accusing glares at me. "So is it my turn?" I asked, inclining my head towards the Atari.  
  
Maggie brushed back a web of mahogany hair that clung to the left side of her face thanks to my assault and gathered some composure. "Oh, it's your turn, all right," she said cryptically, and then to Eric, "You hold her arms." She lunged forward, flattening me onto my back against the layer of blankets we'd lounged on since morning.  
  
"Wha- Don't you dare!" I could've gotten away from him if I really wanted to, but I only pretended to struggle as Eric obediently restrained my arms, pinning them above my head, causing my pajama top with the kitties on it - yes, I was still wearing my pajamas, and yes, they had kitties on them - to inch up, exposing my abdomen to the world.  
  
"What're we gonna do to her? What're we gonna do to her?" Eric cried gleefully, scooting his rear end across the blanket, trying to find a suitable position for his cast, my lamely squirming arms, and his other socked foot. The latter ended up right beside my face, and I crinkled my nose in disgust. I started to ask him if he'd ever heard of washing his feet, but the air suddenly rushed from my lungs and a paralyzing shudder charged through my body.  
  
"Tickle torture!" Maggie squealed, her fingers tripping lightly over my bare belly, light as ten feathers being stroked against that extra- sensitive patch of skin. I gasped and pulled my stomach in, tightening my muscles and really fighting this time. Eric lost one of my hands, then got it back just as quickly.  
  
"N-No, please," I said breathlessly.  
  
It was too late to reason with them. They both had that look in their eyes, the dancing, We've Got You Now one. I was a goner. "No!" I bucked the lower half of my body, but Maggie put an end to that by straddling me as if I were a wild bull she wasn't about to let throw her off. Eric's strength seemed to have doubled, so I couldn't get away from him, either. Hopelessly trapped. I did the only logical thing... I let loose a mixture of machine gun giggles and maniacal shrieks that egged them on even more. My brother aimed his single-handed revenge at the most obvious of places: my armpit. Maggie was more creative; she knew my ticklish spots as if by instinct, and she focused both hands on them mercilessly, not with a continuous motion that wore out easily, but a fluttering of fingers that paused every couple of seconds to let me breathe and anticipate the next round of torment. She worked me over good, paying special attention to my rib cage, the worst area of all, at least in my case.  
  
"M-m-m-mo-" Mom! I heard it plain as plain in my head, just not from my lips. I thrashed and shrieked louder. Like I've said before, screaming isn't my thing, but I'd lost my inhibitions momentarily. My main concern right now was holding in all that cherry Kool-Aid I'd downed earlier. Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes, sneaked into my ears. I whimpered, gasped, laughed mainly because I was expected to. Their attack had surpassed the pleasant stage of butterfly tingles and turned into an unbearable sensation that could have been the second-cousin to pain. "S-s-s- stoo-"  
  
Maggie's hands relaxed and she sat back, resting her full weight on me - and every bit of that seemed to be concentrated directly on my bladder. She gestured for Eric, who would have tickled till my skin shriveled up and died, to halt. "Come again? You'd like us to stop, you say?"  
  
I nodded, still unable to speak over my asthmatic breathing. Exhausted, I lay there and let my chest heave, a few leftover chuckles mingling with the whoosh of air I exhaled. Eric freed my arms, which I promptly returned to my sides.  
  
"Say it first." Maggie stayed in place, comfortably astride my middle. She wiggled her fingers playfully, warning me there was more in store for me if I didn't obey. "Saaay it..." she sang.  
  
"Maggie is queen of the universe," I wheezed, reciting the mantra she'd made up years ago to replace "Uncle" or "Mercy" in situations such as this. "She is magnificent and beautiful and smart and benevolent."  
  
"You... forgot... one..." Maggie's fingers crept closer until she was walking them up my stomach like a traipsing spider, a devilish grin on her lips.  
  
"The best seamstress-" Being touched again made my breath catch in my throat, and my voice squeaked out, "Best seamstress in the world!"  
  
Eric followed suit and threatened me, his fingers dancing above my eyes, making me blink. "What about me?" he said.  
  
"Eric is que- king of the universe. Magnificent, handsome, smart and benevolent. The best Atari player in the world."  
  
"Say I'm funny too," he whispered.  
  
"And funny."  
  
He withdrew his hands, satisfied. I looked at Maggie imploringly and she blessed me with a sweet smile, kissing a single fingertip and tapping that against my nose. "Good girl," she said and shifted to the side, rolling off of me. Big mistake. When I was certain the Kool-Aid wasn't going anywhere, I shot up and over, quick as a cat, and flopped onto Maggie's stomach. She grunted and tried to push me off, but I had the upper hand. A whole new tickle torture began, accompanied by shouts and laughter that mingled as nicely as three-part harmony in the chorus of a well-loved song. Maggie's guffaws, my snickering, Eric's hearty boy's laughter-- it all came together to create a tune we so desperately needed to hear. Happiness. And we sang it with gusto, almost drowning out the tentative knock at the door.  
  
"Heeeeere's Maggie!" my mother announced when she'd untangled herself from Eric and me and melodramatically threw open the door. She picked the worst times to be clever. Slightly bewildered by the greeting he'd received, Scott looked as if he might turn and flee at any moment. Or maybe that's what I was wishing I could do. Whatever the case, Scott regained his cool as always.  
  
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," he quoted swiftly, flashing an easy grin.  
  
"Touché." Maggie was making subtle attempts to fluff the hair matted around her head. She hated talking to men when she looked "a fright"; and she certainly did after tussling with me and my brother. I could think that honestly because I knew I must look ten times worse. Why hadn't I at least brushed my hair after I woke up? Or put on decent clothes? I cast a disdainful glance at my sleeve and the fluffy kitten chasing a ball of yarn there. Yuck.  
  
"What are they talking about?" Eric asked, sounding irritated by the riddles Scott and our mother were speaking in. I let the question go unanswered and did my best to blend in with the pillow I was hugging close, hoping Scott wouldn't notice me. But of course he did. And of course he asked to have a word with me. And of course Maggie said yes when I failed to answer.  
  
I shrugged when she ushered Eric out of the room and sneaked a curious gaze at me. I hadn't told her about staying over at Scott's place or about singing with him or the party or the awful way I'd treated him. She didn't even know that Andy was one of Scott's pals, and I planned to keep it so. Those were my problems. My secrets. I liked having my own life apart from hers, even if I wasn't quite sure how to handle all the little bumps in the road. I'd learn to work those out on my own, I figured.  
  
"So..." Scott hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his slouchy jeans and stood awkwardly by the door. It struck me how young he looked then, young and bashful like the guys at school when they were around a pretty teacher who wasn't quite old enough to be their mother. The innocent schoolboy appearance was just an illusion, though. At least with teenaged boys. Their crushes turned into vulgar bragging matches in the lunchroom, stuff that I didn't care too much to listen to. Howie was an exception; he wasn't into tall tales and bluffing about which girl he'd French kissed, or whatever. That's why I liked to sit with him during lunch period. I bet I could have sat with Scott if he were still in middle school, too. Then again, maybe he would have been too busy horsing around with Andy to even know I existed.  
  
"Your mom's home, huh?"  
  
I clutched the pillow tighter, using it as a cushion for my chin, as I moved from the floor to the couch. "Yeah." That's it? Yeah? Why couldn't I think of anything better? "She's been home since Christmas."  
  
"Good."  
  
We both nodded.  
  
"Andy mentioned-- he thought it might have been her that he met the other night."  
  
Met? I wanted to laugh. Bitterly. I kept my eyes on the floor and spoke without emotion. "Yeah, it was."  
  
"He just brought your suitcase in, right? He didn't, uh..." Scott had stepped closer, his hand rested on the side of the couch where Andy'd sat, and his expression was earnest when I stole a look at him. "He didn't bother you or anything, did he?"  
  
Why are you asking me this now? I wondered. Why now instead of checking in when I needed someone to pry Andy off my face? Had he bothered me? Only when he'd shoved his tongue half-way down my throat and forced his cruddy paws places they never should have been. I hadn't thought about it too often since it happened, and I especially didn't like thinking about it with Scott watching me. It made me feel like trash, like each of those names Maggie had called me were true. I was no good. I was cheap. Might as well be a hooker and turn tricks as Christmas gifts. Feliz Navidad to you, Andy.  
  
But the worst part, the thing that felt dirtiest of all, wasn't what Andy had done. It was what I'd LET him do, what I'd coaxed him to do. Meanwhile, I'd been wishing he were someone else. Someone with shaggy brown hair and blue-green eyes. Someone I could never have. Ashamed, I stared at Scott's tattered Converse sneakers and nibbled at the corner of the pillowcase that had found its way to my mouth. I stopped once I realized what I was doing, and I shook my head. "He made sure I got in and everything, is all. I was fine."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yes," I snapped, more for the benefit of seeming annoyed for not being trusted than out of real anger. It would get him off the subject quickly, I hoped. And it did, to an extent.  
  
"Look," he said, dropping onto the cushion beside me, bumping me lightly with his body. "About that night-- everything that happened... it was screwed up, y'know? You've got more sense than most of my friends combined. More than me, too. I shouldn't have let Andy, or any of them, pressure you into getting trashed."  
  
Finally I looked him in the eye and my guard went down. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
"Yeah-"  
  
"I didn't have to drink anything. I could've said no."  
  
A faint smile flitted on his lips. "Not really. Andy doesn't take no for an answer. He could make a nun..." Scott studied me for a second and must have decided that the rest of that statement wasn't appropriate for young ears. "The point is, it was my place and my responsibility. I should have told them to get lost."  
  
"You wouldn't have told Shelly to get lost," I said quietly, despising every pouty word as I spoke them.  
  
Scott's silence was agreement enough.  
  
"Are you still going to California with her?" My voice quavered and I smooshed my chin into the pillow again.  
  
"Yeah." He sounded sad. "But I'm not going because of her. I'm going because it's a good opportunity for me. I've waited a long time for something like this." He lifted his sneaker from the floor and carefully nudged my bare foot. "It'd be a lot easier leaving if I knew you were happy for me."  
  
I didn't want it to be easy for him, I thought stubbornly, sliding my foot away. I was sick of it being so damned easy for people to walk out on me. "Do you love her?" There might have been tears in my eyes, I wasn't certain.  
  
"Well, yeah. I think so." Scott's attention drifted momentarily, like it did when he played guitar. "I mean, she's fun to be with. I doubt she loves me, though. She'll probably end up marrying some big celebrity. Harrison Ford or some shit. Can you imagine?" He came back to reality chuckling, but the noise died when I didn't join in. "Christ," he muttered, then took hold of my arm firmly, startling me. "Abby."  
  
I let go of the pillow and it rolled off my knees and plopped to the floor like a boulder over a cliff. Scott's features were twisted into an expression I'd only seen one other time - that day we sang together and I'd kissed him while we sat on the bench. His eyes were stormy now, but not from rage.  
  
"If things were different," he said, laboring to get it out, "If you were older and we could..." He stopped abruptly and shook my arm for emphasis. "But we can't. I care about you, Toots. I hope you know that? But it wouldn't work. You can do better than me, anyway. I'm just a bonehead musician." He tried to grin. "All I'm good for is writin' songs and playing instruments. One of these days you're gonna fall in love with a filthy-rich lawyer or a doctor, just wait and see."  
  
I tucked my bottom lip between my teeth so he wouldn't see it trembling. The lump in my throat made it impossible to speak up and disagree, to say I'd never love anybody but him. I'd die a kooky old maid, still dreaming of that one true love I had lost. Like Blanche DuBois in "A Streetcar Named Desire" or Amanda Wingfield in "The Glass Menagerie," in constant reverie about her "seventeen gentlemen callers." I'd had to read both of those plays in my advanced English class, and the thing I remembered most about them was how lonely and miserable the majority of the characters were. Tennessee Williams must have been a jilted lover too.  
  
"Whoever he is," Scott continued, releasing my arm and cupping his hand to my cheek for the briefest moment, "he'll be the luckiest guy in the world. And you tell him I said so."  
  
I gazed at him longingly and fancied he might lean in and kiss me if I did it well enough, but he rooted in his pocket instead, producing a white cassette tape with a label that simply read "For Abby."  
  
"What is it?" I asked when he handed the tape to me.  
  
"Normal people just say they're sorry, but I guess this is my version of an apology. It's a song I wrote for you. That's why I didn't come by sooner; I wanted to finish it first. I didn't know I could write anything that fast." Scott mussed my already mussed hair. "Face it, babe, you inspire me. And very few people do."  
  
"Who's going to inspire you when you're in California then?"  
  
Scott thought for a minute and then shrugged. "Maybe no one. Maybe I'll wind up a gnarly recluse who can only write songs about a thirteen-year-old girl with brown hair and brown eyes." He hunched over like an old geezer with the shakes, demonstrating what his future held.  
  
I smiled in spite of myself. "Good."  
  
After Scott left, I drifted aimlessly towards the hallway, replaying our conversation and thinking of a million or so other things I could have said or done that might have made him decide to stay. It was no use - he and Shelly were hitting the road tomorrow - but I did it anyway.  
  
"Hey, Night of the Living Dead," Eric's voice called me back to earth as I wandered past his open bedroom door. He and Maggie were huddled on his bed, poring over a map-size set of instructions, a legion of model airplane parts (third in his trio of gifts from Maggie-translation-me) littered around them like debris from a fatal crash. "Are you helping us or what?"  
  
I inspected the wreckage on his G.I. Joe comforter and declined, "Or what."  
  
"Thanks a lot." Maggie made a face at the instructions before glancing up at me. "What did Scott want?" She almost had that casual act down.  
  
"He just wanted to say goodbye. He's moving to California tomorrow," I said, keeping the cassette behind me and leaning against the doorframe to look natural. Free and easy.  
  
"And he couldn't say that with us in the room?" Maggie raised her eyebrows. "You're not his only neighbor."  
  
"You guys didn't know him as well as I did," I replied, matter-of-fact, calm. "If you want to tell him goodbye, go do it."  
  
Excusing myself, I headed for my room where I could listen to Scott's song in private, but not before making a speedy detour to the bathroom. That Kool-Aid had kicked in again.  
  
*  
  
"You're such a sad girl with your pale blue backdrop. And your face feels heavy, so you let your head drop."  
  
Flat on my back, I gazed at the ceiling and listened as Scott's voice wafted from the stereo, low and smooth, almost as if he would speak the next verse instead of sing it. But not quite. I shut my eyes so I could visualize how he must have looked when he recorded this song for me, seated Indian style somewhere, his fingers gracing the strings of his guitar in a slow, automatic rhythm. For Abby.  
  
"You had a sad dream, so you tore down your curtains and you screamed out your window. Nobody listened." A wave of emotion seemed to wash over him and he belted the chorus, the guitar obeying his change of pace. "Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting up for you. Mmmhmm, up for you."  
  
His voice was gentle again, caressing. He wanted me to pay attention to what came next. "And you love your sad records and the singer who needs to hide in his apartment just to write about you."  
  
And then the intensity returned in full force. He was acquainted with the pain and yearning he was singing about. "Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting - waiting - waiting... Please, somebody notice me. Please, somebody talk to me. Please, somebody comfort me. I'll be waiting, I'll be waiting..."  
  
"You're such a sad girl. You always skip all your birthdays. Always sick with something, just to mess up your sad day."  
  
He wasn't being literal. And though I couldn't describe it for you, I knew exactly what he meant.  
  
"I'll be waiting... waiting... waiting up for you. Mmmm, waiting up for you." His tone wobbled, not because he didn't have control of it, but because he had intended it to. He was being one of those musicians that tore your heart out with his song.  
  
A few last strums on the guitar, and the music faded out as he breathed the remaining lyrics. "You're such a sad girl... Mmmhmm, you're such a sad girl."  
  
I didn't move for quite a while, continued to lounge there with my hands clasped behind my head and my eyes closed, shut off from the world and transported into the one Scott had created in his song. A curious thing happened when the tape reached its end and the Play button popped up by itself, though. That snap, that tiny built-in mechanism which I had no control over, sounded so final and so hopeless that I just rolled right over, squished my face against my arms, and bawled till every last kitty on both my pajama sleeves was soaked to the bone.  
  
*  
  
Why is it that a person never has good stationery when they need it most? I'd spent about twenty fervid minutes searching high and low for something besides the crumpled sheet of notebook paper I'd torn from my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with the wide-eyed koala bears on the front. When I had scoured every possible nook and cranny and was absolutely certain nothing better would turn up, I grabbed a pencil - gave that a second thought and exchanged it for a pen - and settled by my nightstand to compose a letter. I could never fully express what I wanted to say to Scott by confessing it out loud, so I thought I'd give writing a try. I would have put the words to music if I'd known how.  
  
It took nearly an hour to finish, the ink was smudged in spots, and there wasn't a trace of the eloquence I'd hoped for, but as I leaned against my pillows and recited the lines over and over to myself, I knew this would be my goodbye to Scott. Whether I slipped it under his door or sneaked it into his mailbox or gathered enough courage to hand it to him face-to-face, he would unfold my letter and read:  
  
Dear Scott,  
  
I'm not too good at telling people about my feelings and letting them know what's on my mind, but there are some things I wanted to say to you. I figured writing it would be easiest, though I'm not great at that, either. But face it, babe, you inspired me. Ha ha.  
  
So here goes. You are the kindest person I have ever met. (And I'm not just saying that because you're moving away and I'm all sentimental and shit.) You really are. I know I'm just a kid and you probably don't think I'm old enough to have met so many people that me saying that would even be considered a compliment, but believe me - it is. Thirteen years (fourteen on January 10) is plenty of time to learn how the world works and about human nature and all that. I've learned, mostly, people really don't care too much who they hurt or who they help. As long as they're happy, then to hell with everyone else. Yeah, it's cynical, but I like to be honest. And honestly, those are the kinds of folks I'm used to. Don't feel sorry for me, though. I figure I'll learn from it or something, maybe "grow" from adversity like my teacher says a lot of artists and writers do. I think that must be what happened with you. You didn't have it so great, either, and you use that in your music and that's why it's so special. It's also probably why you understood me so well and really took the time to get to know me and care about what happened to me. Nobody's done that before, so I had to thank you for it. Don't get a big head in California and forget about the little people like me, okay?  
  
Tell Shelly I'm sorry for being a bitch. She's a really nice person and I had no right to make her feel unwelcome, especially when she was being so friendly to me. I get stupid when I'm jealous; but what girl in her right mind wouldn't be jealous of THAT? Still, it wasn't fair, and I apologize to her and to you. Tell her I hope she hits it big in Hollywood and makes a million dollars. And marries Harrison Ford. (Oh, and tell her I really do know who Sigourney Weaver and Kathleen Turner are, and could she get their autographs for me next time she sees them? You know my address.)  
  
You don't need to worry about me and Eric and my weird family. We'll be all right. Do me a favor, though? If you happen to bump into my mother on the street somewhere in the future, remind her she has two children waiting for her at home. No, I'm kidding. Sort of.  
  
Thank you so much for the song! It's really beautiful and... sad. I'm going to feel sorry for myself every time I listen to that, you know. You will remember that I was happy a lot around you too, right? I wasn't sad all the time, I hope. I didn't mean to be. You made me very, very, very happy. Very. Very, very. And I am glad that you've got this opportunity in California. You deserve it more than anyone. I will be so proud when I hear you on the radio. I'll be the first in line to buy your album. Be sure to put the song you wrote for me on it so I can show it to everyone at school and make them green with envy. Hey, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow.  
  
I'm getting the last word here. It was not your fault that I got drunk and made a fool of myself. Contrary to popular belief, teenagers do have minds of their own, and I could have used mine to tell Andy to go fly a kite. Or something a little less pleasant than that. I'm my own responsibility, and I have been for a long time. I should have known better. I DID know better. If it puts you at ease any, I think beer sucks butt and I never want to drink it again. So, if you still insist on taking the blame, remember you also had a hand in making me want to throw myself off a cliff before drinking alcohol ever again. And, for the love of God, forget every stupid word that came out of my mouth while I was drunk. I don't remember all I said, but I know I didn't mean any of it. I take it all back. Please forgive me.  
  
I know I've said it already, but I feel like being redundant. Thank you. Thank you for staying with me at the hospital. Thank you for helping with the Christmas tree. Thank you for the Christmas carols. Thank you for giving me a love for music. Thank you for making me dance. Thank you for not kissing me even though you wanted to (I hope). Thank you for calling Andy a prick. Thank you for listening to my problems. Thank you for the Sex Pistols tape. Thank you for asking if it was okay to smoke in front of me. Thank you for not laughing at my dorky pajamas. Thank you for making me breakfast. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being the first guy I ever loved.  
  
There. I said it. I love you. That's all I really wanted to say in the first place. That, and I'll miss you. I'm trying to be mature about it and pretend I'll move on, but I won't. I'm going to end up like Willie Nelson, singing, "You were always on my mind..." Aren't you proud of me? I concluded with a song reference.  
  
Love, Nightingale  
  
P.S. Don't you dare call anyone else that or I will hunt you down and kill you.  
  
-----  
  
Author's Note, 6-12-03: The lyrics to the song Scott wrote for Abby were not written by me. Scott Thomas is a real person, with a real band (aptly named The Scott Thomas Band), and he wrote the song. Not for Abby, of course. That only happened in my little dream world. But anyway, they're his and you can find the song on his album entitled "California." It's a great song. 


	17. Over the River and Through the Woods

Chapter 17  
  
OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS  
  
*  
  
Day four since Scott had hauled the last of several boxes into the bed of his truck - burying the space that only a fortnight ago had been filled by a bitty fir tree that was currently shedding more than its share of pine needles over the Wyczenski apartment (Eric wouldn't let us take it down. He wanted to make up for not having one during most of December, I think) - and chugged out West. Into the sunset. Without me. I had maintained a safe distance during the loading, keeping vigil at a secluded window in the hall that either winter or my breath had continually fogged over.  
  
It just so happens I did rally up the nerve to deliver my farewell- declaration-of-love in person. But it would have been mortifying to hang around and watch as it was read, like I was one of those saucer-eyed ragamuffin children who gazed out hauntingly from paintings. I hated those ugly brats. Maggie used to have two of them, a boy and a girl, nailed to the bathroom wall, of all places. Those little freaks just stared and stared whenever you got near the toilet. She'd finally taken them down when Jimmy had said what each of us was already thinking: he didn't particularly enjoy having an audience every time he had to take a whiz.  
  
So, fearful of becoming a pesky spectator, I had kissed the envelope my letter was in, a corny impulse I could not restrain, and knocked on Scott's door, bombarding him with a jumbled explanation of what I'd come for and how I couldn't stay and would he please wait until miles away before he read my note? He'd agreed, and then I had made a scene and hugged him before scurrying off to hide and brood at my lookout window. And I had been hiding and brooding ever since.  
  
Maggie was concerned with my loss of appetite. She said I was going to blow away in the wind if I didn't eat soon, and end up celebrating the new year in China or somewhere. That was a chance I was willing to take. China was better than apartment 17, where if you exited, turned left and strode a couple doors down, you would be standing in front of Scott's ex-apartment. And on the other side of the door was silence. Indeed, he had taken the music with him.  
  
"I hope this visit gets you out of the funk you're in." Maggie tinkered with the windshield wiper lever until the blades flicked in response, dusting a powdery layer of snow from the windshield and leaving behind a design like wings of an incomplete snow angel. Zoned out, I let my mother's statement pass me by and went on studying the heavy, coin-sized flakes on the other side of our tiny Omni's passenger window, pondering what kind of weather they were having in California.  
  
"Aww, Mom just said the f-word!" Eric called from the backseat, his tone a perfect tattletale pitch.  
  
"No," Maggie spoke to his reflection in the rearview mirror, "I said funk."  
  
"She did it again. I'm telling Grandma."  
  
"Fuuunk. F-u-N-k." By now they were both giggling and Maggie began drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, singing, "Won't you take me to Funkytown?" while Eric tried to drown her out with his own tuneless chorus of "Potty mouth, potty mouth!" The tight space we were in caught his shrill voice and thrust it right against my ears, snapping me into the present.  
  
"You guys are freaks," I commented, my first sentence in probably over an hour. I'd gone beyond the normal lull in conversation that accompanied most long car rides, and begun to borderline on a vow of silence. Nuns took vows of silence, I mused. Maybe I would join a convent. I already had the no- talking and fasting thing going for me, and I would never be getting married, anyway. I wondered, were nuns allowed to listen to Sex Pistols tapes?  
  
"Says the mute," Maggie responded dryly. "You do know we have quite a piece to drive yet? Do you plan on making us look at that scowl the rest of the way?" She screwed her face up, one eye squinty, lip touching nose because she'd puffed it out so far, the bottom one curving down in a deep frown. I rolled my eyes and turned my face away when I sensed a smile ready to peek through.  
  
"You should be watching the road, not me, Popeye."  
  
In the backseat Eric snickered and serenaded us with a version of the Popeye ditty that had been reconstructed by generations of wicked schoolchildren who'd had far too much recess time on their hands- "I'm Popeye the Sailor Man, I live in a garbage can. I turned on the heater, it burned off my wiener. I'm Popeye the Sailor Man - toot! toot!"  
  
For an unpredictable slip of a moment the only noise was the hum of a car in motion and the sporadic squeak of wiper blades against moist glass. Eric had just violated one of the most sacred rules of dirty playground rhymes: under no circumstances did you ever repeat them to adults, especially parents. The milder ones about greasy, grimy gopher guts and such were acceptable, but when the human anatomy and/or crass language was involved, that was best kept secret from anyone over the age of twelve or thirteen. (My personal favorite was Miss Suzy and her steamboat with the bell. I'd pretty much retired all the rest.) My brother and I waited with feigned trepidation to see how someone in her thirties would handle it.  
  
"Well" - Maggie's eyebrows went up - "for funk's sake, who's got the potty mouth now?"  
  
Despite my best efforts to remain sullen and melancholy, at least till we reached Grandma Corrie Jo's house, I laughed.  
  
*  
  
Being welcomed at my grandmother's house was like the end of every Beverly Hillbillies rerun I'd ever seen: door opens, handful of people emerge, and the cheerful wave fest begins. Unbeknownst to Aunt Shelia, who resisted the cold by staying in the doorway, Grandma's two high-spirited pugs, a tarnished-gold-colored one named Oscar and a chocolate-brown one named Ovaltine, had decided to join the greeting and galloped out into the snow, tumbling over each other, nipping at heels, and yapping their heads off at the car they only saw in their driveway about twice a year. Their miniature paws indented the snow as they raced, leaving behind a Connect-the-Dots pattern that seemed to spell out Ha ha, you can't catch us! Even Maggie chuckled when Grandma Corrie Jo made a few unsuccessful grabs for the rambunctious pair, then gave clapping and scolding a try. Good luck with that, Grandma.  
  
Part of the problem was solved by Grandad Wilbur, who hurled a snowball at Ovaltine's head with impressive precision. Terrified, the pug flew indoors, yelping, tail between her legs. Oscar gave no indication that he even noticed his partner in crime getting beaned, but Grandma sure made a fuss. I opened the car door just in time to hear her cry, "Wilbur Dorsett!" with the intonation of a mother reprimanding her eight-year-old son.  
  
Shivering with delight, Oscar scaled my outstretched legs like a ladder, reached my knees and gave a small leap that sent him careening into my arms, a flurry of snow and fur. Lick, lick, lick; a million wet little kisses.  
  
"Hey, fella," I said, administering a light noogie to what might have been his head - he was so squirmy and flat-faced I could barely tell one end from the other.  
  
"Don't you greet that scallywag before you greet your own grandmother." Corrie Jo trudged towards me with open arms, the snow crunching beneath her Asian-styled house slippers. Those were the other things she liked to wear a lot. If it wasn't bare feet or flats, it was slippers. Even in an inch of snow.  
  
"That's a-girl, don't hang back. I ain't gonna bite you." Really, the last part blended together more like a single word: bytcha. I loved the way those normal, everyday phrases dallied on her tongue as if they were a bland stew she had sampled and spiced up with her much livelier Southern dialect. "Just come on over here and let me give you a hug." And even as she said it, I was being enfolded by two of the most capable, most affectionate arms in the world. "Mmm-mmm-mmm. Precious baby," she crooned, rocking me from side to side, prolonging the embrace. I could have stayed there forever. But I had to share her.  
  
After I'd received a bone-crushing squeeze and an incredibly loud smooch on the forehead from Grandad Wilbur, followed by Aunt Shelia singing the praises of my beauty ("My Lord, child, you could be a model"), and after Maggie and Eric each had their turn with her, I got Grandma Corrie Jo back. Mine, and mine alone. We held hands and rushed to the warmth of the house as Grandad lugged Eric and Eric's twin sidekicks - the crutches - and Maggie and Aunt Shelia brought up the rear, gabbing like... well, sisters.  
  
If someone would have passed by on the street and watched us, they'd probably never have guessed that nearly six months ago, on this very stoop, we'd had our own family feud, minus the buzzers and the "Survey says" and a host to act as mediator. And nobody won. The game had ended with Eric and me peering through the back window of our car as Maggie floored the gas pedal, peeled out of the driveway, and vowed never to return to "that woman's" house again. Meanwhile, That Woman, my Grandma Corrie Jo, had stood on her front steps, weeping, head bowed so that her lovely face, a face with a classic, dignified sort of beauty that made you want to respect her, was hidden behind a crop of vibrant strawberry blond hair. It had been like watching a rose struggling to survive a hurricane. I absolutely hated the image, but it stuck in my brain because it was the last one I had of her. Memories like that brought me dangerously close to hating Maggie too.  
  
"You're skin and bones," Grandma said, helping me off with my coat. "We're gonna have to fatten you up right quick. What? What're you grinnin' at?"  
  
I just shrugged, continued smiling, and allowed her to lead me, her hand at the small of my back, towards the delicious aroma of fried chicken and apple cobbler that was wafting from the kitchen into the dinning room. She'd made two of my favorites.  
  
"That" - dramatically, she imitated my shrug - "is not an answer. Speak, for heaven's sake. God gave you a tongue and you're s'posed to use it. Conversation is a marvelous thing. I read an article about a girl your age who got a little tickle in her throat one day, and the next..." She fluttered her hand through the air, suggestive of a departing butterfly. "Gone. Lost her voice completely. You can bet she'd be thankin' her lucky stars to be in your place. You've got a perfectly fine voice, and I barely heard so much as 'Boo!' from you since ya got here."  
  
"Boo," I said.  
  
"Oh, clever girl." Grandma Corrie Jo gave me one of her looks, the kind Maggie often used while saying some amusing, nonsensical threat like "uh- huh, keep it up, Lip" after I'd made one of my sarcastic quips. The sly smile that followed was another thing Maggie had inherited, and I liked to think that maybe I had too. I wasn't sure if Grandma was aware of it, but I constantly studied her tiniest movements and expressions, hoping to link my behavior to hers in any way I could.  
  
We were away from the others now, all except for Ovaltine, who had tagged after us to make up for the ecstatic welcome she'd been snowballed out of, her snip of a tail whapping back and forth so furiously it looked like she might wiggle her hind end loose. I stooped to pat her head and she made me feel right at home by gnawing at my pinkie (with the delicacy of a true lady, of course), then excused herself with a sharp, approving "Arf!" and trotted away to say hello to my companions. I straightened, caught sight of the laughter that glinted in my grandmother's lively pale green eyes, and began to giggle. "I think she likes me," I said.  
  
"She ain't the only one." And Grandma Corrie Jo pulled me into another lengthy hug, our privacy giving her the freedom to hold on as long as she wanted to. As long as I wanted her to. While I was there I breathed in her scent, trying to memorize it, an idea that came to me thanks to a scene from The Parent Trap in which Hayley Mills sniffs the lapels of her grandfather's jacket because she wants to make a memory of what he smells like. I think she came up with something like peppermint and tobacco. I, on the other hand, was getting a pleasant whiff of tea and... a fragrance similar to cherry Coke mixed with... with...? It was a wholesome, cozy kind of smell. A Corrie Jo kind of smell.  
  
"Are you wearing perfume?" I questioned. "Or did you take a bath in cherries?"  
  
"You got a nose like a bloodhound." Grandma stepped back to look at me, a hand on either of my shoulders. "It's lotion. Cherry-almond to be exact. 'Originally produced by The Andrew Jergens Company in 1901,'" she informed me, probably reciting a line off the bottle. I had always been astonished by her keen memory. She only needed to read something once or twice to have it memorized, and she stored up trivia and useless facts galore. Grandad called her brain a sponge.  
  
"If I've got the nose of a bloodhound, then you've got the memory of an elephant."  
  
"Well." She clucked her tongue. "Thanks to Jergens I don't smell like one."  
  
The giddiness of our reunion lasted a few minutes more, then finally wore off when Grandma Corrie Jo lowered her voice and peeked at the doorway that communicated between dinning room and living room, as if she suspected Maggie might appear there at any moment. That was very possible.  
  
"How's your mama doin'?" she asked gently, her head tilted so her face was closer to my level. She swept a strand of hair off my shoulder with her finger. "You three been gettin' on all right? Tell the truth, now, sweetie."  
  
"Yeah, we're okay."  
  
Her eyes didn't stray for one second, and I could not look directly at her and lie. It was almost if she'd slipped me a truth serum that had already worked its way through my blood stream. Fine, I would be honest. But I wasn't going to tell her every nasty, unsettling detail. There were some things grandmothers didn't need to find out, just like there were things 10- year-old boys and mothers and fathers and next-door-neighbors didn't need to find out. There wasn't a living soul I could think of that I didn't keep secrets from. Not a single one.  
  
"She was kinda bad for a while before Christmas," I confessed. "You know how she gets when she's off her medicine."  
  
Grandma Corrie Jo nodded, her face drawn into a sad, sympathetic frown. She patted my arm and I got the feeling it was done not only to comfort me but her as well.  
  
"We got through it, though. It wasn't..." Wasn't what? Hellish? Frightening? Painful? The worst Christmas in my life? Oh, but it was. It had been each of those. "It's better now. She's been taking her lithium regularly. She even makes sure I watch her do it." No amount of lightheartedness could make that last part sound normal or positive. Hey, Mom's a raving lunatic, but look on the bright side, Grandma: she's got me to play pill warden. And what about the day she fails to show up for inspection? Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.  
  
"Grandad and I are always just a phone call away if you need us," Grandma reminded me, though I had never put that invitation to use. I saw no point in disrupting their lives along with mine. They had heartache enough to last them from one of our visits to the next without me calling in the meantime to update them with tales of woe. "Don't be afraid to dial our number, y'hear me? I mean it, Abilene."  
  
Corrie Jo's father had hailed from Abilene, Texas, hence the nickname. She only used it on rare occasions, which meant when my mother wasn't in earshot. Maggie wasn't fond of the handle. "I named her Abigail, Mama, not Abilene," she'd say. But the name belonged to me and I let Grandma call me whatever she liked when it was just the two of us.  
  
"I know, Grandma," I mumbled, chin practically touching my chest because I'd lowered my head to avoid looking at her. Frankly, I wasn't the least bit angry when Maggie sauntered in and brought my chat with Grandma Corrie Jo to an end.  
  
*  
  
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I hadn't eaten more than a few bites of food a meal for the past four days, but the feast my grandparents had prepared tasted like heaven, and I gorged myself shamelessly. Grandad Wilbur wanted to know if I had a hollow leg, and Aunt Shelia cracked a joke about Maggie starving her children, which Grandma Corrie Jo did not laugh at. All in all, it was an enjoyable dinner we shared, and I was still recuperating from it half an hour later when my grandmother entered the living room with a photo album so full and thick with added pages that the covers could no longer close properly. I recognized it immediately, though it looked a bit more worn since the last time I'd seen it.  
  
"Scootch," she prompted, dropping the heavy album into my lap. I groaned and sluggishly made room for her in the broad chair where I'd been reclining. It was a miracle I could even move, but I managed it somehow, and Grandma and I were soon nestled shoulder to shoulder, the album propped open against our thighs.  
  
I didn't need to ask why she'd unearthed such a relic, nor did I feel the slightest bit concerned that I might be bored to death by its contents. Browsing through pictures with my grandmother was sort of a tradition, and I loved hearing her tell the special story behind each one. I knew most of them by heart already, but nothing compared to her vivid descriptions that brought to life the scenes that had been captured ages before I was born.  
  
We perused the first few pages, Grandma Corrie Jo lovingly pointing out the tall, handsome young man who, despite the motionlessness required for those archaic cameras of his era, always seemed to be smiling. I'd never met my great-grandfather, but my grandmother spoke of him with such affection I knew he must have been a good man. Great-grandmother, however, had been a severe-looking woman, stiff and uncomfortable in every photo, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. It wasn't hard to tell which parent Corrie Jo had inherited her looks from.  
  
Preserved for me in black and white was Grandma's progression from round, dimpled youngster to willowy and attractive adult. I adored the childhood pictures. Decked out in bows, Mary Janes and frilly little dresses with pinafores, she had looked like something right out of an Our Gang sketch, twice as cute as Shirley Temple. But it was the pictures of Corrie Jo in her early twenties and thirties that really fascinated me. She'd been nothing short of a starlet and had known how to pose like one too.  
  
"You should've been an actress, Grandma," I said, holding down the page so she couldn't hurry past snapshots of herself in a striped two-piece bathing suit. (She referred to these as cheesecake photos.)  
  
Grandma chuckled. "Well, I might've if I hadn't met your grandfather at such a young age. I was a wife and mother before I even had time to grow up myself and think about a... glamorous occupation such as actin'." She finally pried my hand away and turned to the next page, revealing several pictures of a romantic couple on their wedding day. Her smile grew fond and distant.  
  
"Were you really only sixteen when you got married?" I asked, dubious as if I had never heard the answer to that question before.  
  
"Yes, ma'am." She backed that up with a nod. "And it like to've killed my daddy. It was the first time I ever saw him cry."  
  
"Didn't he like Grandpa Newman?"  
  
"They got on pretty well, but Daddy said it felt like someone'd come right along and snatched up his baby. He didn't think I was old enough for the responsibility of startin' a family. And I wasn't. But no one was gonna change my mind, no sir."  
  
I half-grinned, imagining my grandma as a willful, stubborn teenager, then, "Did you... do you ever regret it?"  
  
Without a moment's hesitation, Grandma Corrie Jo tapped her fingertip on a photo of herself seated in the very chair we were lounging in now, but there was a different girl by her side, one with quite a familiar face. Maggie. Her wide eyes and equally wide smile were unmistakable. Judging by her size, the pigtails jutting out on either side of her head, and the limp rag doll clutched in her fist, she'd been about six or seven years old at the time. Even then her happiness had been contagious, and the twenty- something Corrie Jo in the picture was gazing at her with a mixture of joy and adoration. "Never," Grandma said. "Not in a million years."  
  
I saved my next and final question for what was probably my most favorite picture of all. It was a little off center, probably because Aunt Shelia, eleven by then, had been the photographer, but the lens had still managed to capture its subjects with such clarity and at the perfect moment, that it seemed like a professional had snapped the shot.  
  
According to Grandma, she'd been working in the kitchen that day, doing dishes, mopping, the whole shebang, when in traipsed Grandpa Newman and a nine-year-old version of my mother, muddy from head to foot after working in the garden. When Grandma had begun to throw a fit about them dirtying up her nice clean kitchen, Aunt Shelia'd started clicking away on the camera that had been her birthday present. Somewhere amidst the blinding flashes, she'd got a photo of Corrie Jo losing the battle, pulled into a tight, grubby embrace by Grandpa Newman. He had tenderly kissed Grandma's neck, his muscular arms encircling her trim waist, and she, with her head tilted in a luxurious manner, eyes closed, was smiling. Maggie had her arms thrown around both of them, not to be left out of the fun. I doubted either of the little girls had recognized the passion they were witnessing, but I liked to think the few years I had on them made me a bit wiser.  
  
"You and Grandpa really loved each other," I commented knowingly, gazing at the photo, and Grandma's firm nod said it all. Watching her carefully, I went ahead with my inquiry. "Did you stop loving him, then? I mean, after he died and you married Grandad Wilbur?" I wiggled my foot, nervous that I might be prying where I didn't belong. "W-was it hard to love somebody else?"  
  
Grandma appeared slightly shocked, but she recovered quickly. She seemed to know that it was important for me to get a thorough and honest answer, and for a split second I was tempted to tell her everything about Scott. And maybe someday I would. But not now.  
  
"It wasn't easy, no..." Grandma Corrie Jo proceeded slowly. "I didn't think I could ever love anybody the way I loved John. And I do still love him. I always will."  
  
"But what about Grandad?"  
  
"Well, I love him too, of course," she said matter-of-factly. "Don't you believe that rubbish about people only havin' one soul mate apiece. I care about Wilbur just as much as I did John, but it's a different kind of relationship because they were two very different kinds of people."  
  
"So you can fall in love more than once," I murmured to myself, breathing a sigh that bordered between disappointment and relief. It was a tad confusing, in my opinion, but I figured if anyone knew the truth it would be my grandmother. She'd married twice, and both times the marriages had lasted longer than anybody else's I knew of.  
  
"Don't fret, dear heart." Grandma Corrie Jo consoled me with a pat on the knee. "You've got your whole life ahead of ya."  
  
And after going-on-fourteen-years and all I'd learned about love so far, that was exactly what I was afraid of. 


	18. January 1982

Chapter 18  
  
JANUARY 1982  
  
*  
  
"Mom, do I really have to go back to school?" Eric whined, slurping a droplet of milk that trembled on his bottom lip back into his cereal- clogged mouth. I munched extra noisily on my Cheerios while widening my eyes at him, but he was clearly ignoring my hushing techniques. I made to kick him lightly under the table, then remembered his cast and withdrew my foot. I wasn't particularly worried that his incessant pleading to stay home would bug Maggie; it was MY nerves he was grating on this morning. No matter how much I loved the boy, being cooped up in the apartment with him so long had begun to take its toll.  
  
Maggie made a pained face and huffed like she was sympathizing for him, but her reply was an emphatic "Yes." Instantly, she returned to nibbling on a bit of pulp from the juicy orange that was her breakfast.  
  
I lowered my head and snickered, absentmindedly shoveling another spoonful of cereal into my mouth. Eric didn't find it quite as amusing.  
  
"Fine. Laugh at the poor cripple," he said dramatically. "I bet Phillip's mom wouldn't make him go to school if he got hit by a car and his leg broke."  
  
"If that happens, I hope Phillip's mom has him put down so we don't have to hear about how wonderful he is anymore," I muttered, using my spoon to swirl the discolored milk in my bowl. A cluster of soggy Cheerios bobbed in its wake, no more appetizing than the pair of banana slices that were floating nearby like two yellow fish eyes staring up at me. Bloated dead fish eyes swimming in the scummy remains of milk-and-oat mush.  
  
It occurred to me just then how deeply I hated breakfast.  
  
"Shut up." Eric pulled my bowl towards him as I pushed it away, and I watched with disgust as he drank down what was left in it. He smacked his lips and burped before adding, "At least he's not dumb like your friends."  
  
"You don't even know my friends," I pointed out.  
  
"Do too."  
  
"Do not."  
  
"They're retards," Eric said.  
  
"So are you," I replied, irritatingly calm.  
  
A full-scale war was about to erupt, I could see it in my brother's eyes, but Maggie had been quietly observing our little spat and finally chose to intervene. "Cool it," she advised, gathering up shards of orange peel and emptying it into the trash. While her back was turned, Eric mouthed "dummy" at me and I retaliated by mouthing "retard." We shot each other dirty looks until Maggie was facing us again.  
  
"Time for school," she said brightly, dealing out the sacked lunches she'd prepared earlier this morning. Apparently the visit to Grandma Corrie Jo's house had been a good influence on my mother. Her maternal instincts seemed to have kicked into high gear. She was a regular Donna Reed these days. It was... strange.  
  
"I'm walking." I took the lunch, though I had no intentions of eating it. Bartering in the cafeteria was one of my best school subjects. Whether it was mooching meals off the neighbors or finagling one of my classmates into handing over a Hostess cupcake, I'd always had a knack for obtaining food. At least I'd never go hungry in my lifetime, I thought.  
  
"But I'm driving-"  
  
"I know, but I'd rather walk."  
  
Eric glanced from Maggie to me, and back again. "Well, there's no sense in you driving just me, Mom," he said with a tone that suggested great benevolence on his part. "I'll stay home and save you the trouble of going out in all that pesky snow and ice and wind..."  
  
"You're going to school, Eric." The crispness in Maggie's voice warned that Eric was pushing his luck, and my brother very reluctantly resigned himself to the fact that his winter vacation had officially ended. Without another word he pushed back from the table, hoisted himself onto his crutches, and went to retrieve his coat and gloves, looking as pathetic as possible. If he hadn't acted so rotten lately, I might have felt sorry for him. Whereas Grandma's house had a positive effect on Maggie, it seemed to have given Eric the notion he could be a holy terror. And since it was "that time of the month" for me, all I'd had for the past couple days was major take-no- bullcrap PMS. I hadn't even listened to Scott's song the entire weekend, because I couldn't get through it without bawling uncontrollably or wanting to pulverize the freaking stereo with a hammer.  
  
I got up from the table and rinsed my bowl out in the sink, aware that Maggie was watching my every move. Avoiding meeting her eye, I started to brush past her on my way to the coat closet, but she blocked my path and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Sure you don't want a ride to school, sweetie? That old wind's pretty harsh."  
  
"I said I'd walk, and I'll walk," I snapped, shrugging her hand away. "The wind's no different now than it was before when I DIDN'T have a ride."  
  
An angry reaction would not have succeeded in making me regret what I'd just said, but the ashamed, chastised expression that stole over Maggie's face did. She lowered her arm and fidgeted uncomfortably, distancing herself from me a bit. "O-okay... I'll see you later, then. Be-..." She halted, pressing her lips together before they could form the next word: good. She cleared her throat. "Have a good day."  
  
Remorseful, I latched onto her before she could go anywhere, pulling her into a rather fierce and hasty sort of hug. "I'm sorry," I murmured into her shoulder, relieved when she didn't hesitate to put her arms around me. "I just feel like I need to be alone for a while, that's all."  
  
"I understand." Maggie smiled lovingly at me when we parted, and I believe she really did understand. Maybe too much.  
  
So my return to Hopkins Junior High began as a solitary one. Indeed, the wind was ferocious and it took all of three minutes for my face, fingers, and toes to go completely numb, but I marched on without lament. The cold jolted me to life, actually, and my head felt a lot clearer than it had since before my vacation had started. With no specific worries to cloud my brain at the moment, I was free to ponder whatever I saw fit. I decided not to think about Scott. Or my father and would-be family. Or pretty much anything that had happened in the past two and a half weeks. Like I did with most unpleasant memories, I wanted to push Christmas 1981 to the back of my mind and let it fade into nothing more than a bad dream. So I did.  
  
While I took turns breathing through my nostrils and sniffing back drippy snot, I got to thinking about underwear. Bras, mostly. They weren't all they were cracked up to be. My grandmother, the packrat that she was, had an attic full of trunks that contained just about every piece of clothing she and her daughters had ever worn, including a couple of training bras that had undoubtedly been Maggie's. (The size tags had M's penciled onto them, probably to avoid laundry mix-ups with Aunt Shelia.) I'd discovered this while Eric and I had been trying to entertain ourselves during what Granddad Wilbur called "adult playtime" - otherwise known as boring chatter and card games.  
  
Figuring it wouldn't be missed, I'd pocketed the smallest, whitest bra and planned to try it out when I got home. I guess I'd been expecting some miraculous change the instant I put it on... maybe a little swelling in the chest area, maybe a few more heads turning. Something. But all it really did was itch and remind me of a cumbersome harness. And yet, I'd worn the damn thing again today. Go figure.  
  
I'd just begun to wonder if any of my friends would notice a difference in me, when I glanced up to see Howie - my only real guy friend - waiting for me at our usual meeting spot, bouncing his lacrosse stick carelessly against one knee. He was keeping warm by jiggling his body and standing in a patch of sunlight, his unruly white-blond curls shining almost as blindingly as the January snow. His ears were a tad large, a flaw that made him the brunt of many of his own jokes, and presently he looked like someone had ripped a giant pink Valentine's heart in two and pasted a half to either side of his head. It made me smile.  
  
"It's about time you showed up," he greeted as I approached. Without missing a beat, he fell into step beside me and we trudged the sidewalk as if we'd already been walking together for the past few blocks. "I was about to freeze my heinie off back there," he said, motioning over his shoulder with the lacrosse stick like it was an extra-long arm. "The least you could do is say" - He made his voice high and squealy - "'Hi, Howie. How was Christmas?'"  
  
I cocked an eyebrow. "Heinie??"  
  
Howie rolled his smoky-gray eyes and swung the lacrosse stick, whacking me on the bottom with it before I even realized what he was doing. "Y'know, rump, fanny, posterior, glu-te-us max-i-mus," he spouted impressively, then hit me with the stick again. "The bee-hind."  
  
"Ass?" I offered, fixing him with a meaningful stare.  
  
He pretended to be taken aback. "Oh, that hurt almost."  
  
We had frequent verbal spars such as this, all of them harmless fun, some of which became a competition of who could whip out impressive words the fastest. It was because of our advanced vocabularies that Howie and I were friends, as a matter of fact. We'd both been placed in an English class for accelerated learners. It's doubtful we would have ever spoken to each other if the teacher hadn't broken the ice by making us partners for a project on literary greats. I'd wanted to use Sylvia Plath; Howie'd been adamant we use J.D. Salinger. After about a week of hating each others' guts, we'd discovered we shared an affinity for Edgar Allan Poe. We'd aced the project and been friends ever since.  
  
"Is it really necessary to carry that club around in the middle of winter - when, by the way, there aren't any tournaments - and use it to assault innocent young women?" I eyed Howie's lacrosse stick with disdain, well aware that it would drive him crazy for me to do so. He was in love with that thing, took it everywhere he went. One of these days he was going to marry it.  
  
"Women? I see no women here." There was a devilish glint in Howie's eyes as he jabbed at me with the netted end of his stick. "Just a whiny little girl who got her keister up on the wrong side of the bed this-"  
  
The rest of his sentence ended in astonished sputtering, for I had scooped a handful of snow off someone's mailbox and tossed it directly into Howie's wind-chapped, rosy-red face. Pausing only long enough to give him a smug smile, I swatted him on the butt with my gloved hand, then strode ahead with a saucy gait. "You forgot 'derriere', smarty pants," I called over my shoulder.  
  
I knew he would pay me back, but I faked surprise and screamed anyway when he used the net on his lacrosse stick to launch a chunk of snow at me. We took turns pelting each other for the remainder of our trek and arrived at school flushed and extremely wound up. My hair was damp and straggly, my coat was two different colors (wet purple and dry purple), and I was shivering so badly my chin quaked like I was some kind of haywire ventriloquist's dummy, but I felt really happy and satisfied. It occurred to me that I hadn't played in the snow for a long, long time. I'd forgotten how much fun it could be. Maybe I would remind Eric and my mom when I got home, because I don't think they remembered, either.  
  
*  
  
THE END  
  
-----  
  
Author's Note, 7-25-03: Many thanks to the readers and reviewers-- your comments are greatly appreciated. I hope y'all enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. :) At the moment I've got ideas for a couple more fanfics "in the wings," and my plan is to get the next started within a couple weeks (unless I procrastinate...) Stay tuned. 


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